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/^e  SL  A -*-? 


The 
SAGEBRUSHER 


"YOU'RE  A  GOOD  SPORT."  SAID  MAJOR  BARNES 


(PAGE  203] 


THE 

SAGEBRUSHER 

A  STORY  OF  THE  WEST 

BY 

EMERSON  HOUGH 

AUTHOR  OF 

THE  COVERED  WAGON, 
THE  BROKEN  GATE,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

J.  HENRY 


NEW     YORK 

GROSSET   &   DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 

M*de  in  the  United  State*  of  America 


35/5 


COPTEIGHT,   1919,   BT 

EMERSON  HOUGH 


PBfflTED   IN  THE  DSITED  8TATHB  OF  AHEBICA 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — SIM  GAGE  AT  HOME i 

II. — WANTED:  A  WIFE n 

III. — FIFTY-FIFTY 19 

IV. — HEARTS  AFLAME 29 

V. — BEGGAR  MAN — THIEF 33 

VI. — RICH  MAN — POOR  MAN 36 

VII. — CHIVALROUS;  AND  OF  ABUNDANT  MEANS  41 

VIII. — RIVAL  CONSCIENCES 48 

IX. — THE  HALT  AND  THE  BLIND     ....  60 

X. — NEIGHBORS 78 

XI. — THE  COMPANY  DOCTOR 83 

XII. — LEFT  ALONE 93 

XIII. — THE  SABCAT  CAMP 106 

XIV.— THE  MAN  TRAIL 114 

XV.— THE  SPECIES 128 

XVI. — THE  REBIRTH  OF  SIM  GAGE   .     .     .     .  136 

XVII. — SAGEBRUSHERS 154 

XVIII. — DONNA  QUIXOTE 162 

XIX. — THE  PLEDGE 170 

XX. — MAJOR  ALLEN  BARNES,  M.D.,  PH.D. — 

AND  SIM  GAGE 180 

XXL— WITH  THIS  RING 189 

XXII. — MRS.  GAGE 193 


v 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIII.— THE  OUTLOOK 205 

XXIV. — ANNIE  MOVES  IN 211 

XXV. — ANOTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 221 

XXVI. — THE  WAYS  OF  MR.  GARDNER      .     .     .  228 

XXVII. — DORENWALD,  CHIEF 236 

XXVIII. — A  CHANGE  OF  BASE 244 

XXIX. — MARTIAL  LAW 250 

XXX. — BEFORE  DAWN 259 

XXXL— THE  BLIND  SEE 271 

XXXIL— THE  ENEMY 280 

XXXIII —THE  DAM 292 

XXXIV. — AFTER  THE  DELUGE 302 

XXXV. — ANNIE  ANSWERS 305 

XXXVI. — MRS.  DAVIDSON'S  CONSCIENCE    .     .     .  309 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 
PAGE 


"You're  a  good  sport,"  said  Major  Barnes 

Frontispiece 

"You  ought  to  hang!"  said  she 104 

"You  say  I  shall  be  able  to  see  him — my  husband?"     226 
"Get  a  board,  or  something,  boys" 288 


THE   SAGEBRUSHER 


CHAPTER  I 

SIM    GAGE    AT    HOME 

IM,"  said  Wid  Gardner,  as  he  cast  a  frowning 
glance  around  him,  "take  it  one  way  with 
another,  and  I  expect  this  is  a  leetle  the  dirt 
iest  place  in  the  Two-Forks  Valley." 

The  man  accosted  did  no  more  than  turn  a  mild 
blue  eye  toward  the  speaker  and  resume  his  whittling. 
He  smiled  faintly,  with  a  sort  of  apology,  as  the  other 
went  on. 

"I'll  say  more'n  that,  Sim.  It's  the  blamedest, 
dirtiest  hole  in  the  whole  state  of  Montany — yes,  or 
in  the  whole  wide  world.  Lookit!" 

He  swept  a  hand  around,  indicating  the  interior  of 
the  single-room  log  cabin  in  which  they  sat. 

"Well,"  commented  Sim  Gage  after  a  time,  taking 
a  meditative  but  wholly  unagitated  tobacco  shot  at  the 
cook  stove,  "I  ain't  saying  she  is  and  I  ain't  saying  she 
ain't  But  I  never  did  say  I  was  a  perfessional  house 
keeper,  did  I  now?" 

"Well,  some  folks  has  more  sense  of  what's  right, 
anyways,"  grumbled  Wid  Gardner,  shifting-  his  posi- 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

tion  on  one  of  the  two  insecure  cracker  boxes  which 
made  the  only  chairs,  and  resting  an  elbow  on  the  oil 
cloth  table  cover,  where  stood  a  few  broken  dishes, 
showing  no  signs  of  any  ablution  in  all  their  hope 
less  lives.  "My  own  self,  I'm  a  bachelor  man,  too — 
been  batching  for  twenty  years,  one  place  and  another 
— but  by  God!  Sim,  this  he/e  is  the  human  limit. 
Look  at  that  bed." 

He  kicked  a  foot  toward  a  heap  of  dirty  fabrics 
which  lay  upon  the  floor,  a  bed  which  might  once 
have  been  devised  for  a  man,  but  long  since  had  fallen 
below  that  rank.  It  had  a  breadth  of  dirty  canvas 
thrown  across  it,  from  under  which  the  occupant  had 
crawled  out.  Beneath  might  be  seen  the  edges  of 
two  or  three  worn  and  dirty  cotton  quilts  and  a  pair 
of  blankets  of  like  dinginess.  Below  this  lay  a  worn 
elk  hide,  and  under  all  a  lower-breadth  of  the  over 
lapping  canvas.  It  was  such  a  bed  as  primarily  a  cow- 
puncher  might  have  had,  but  fallen  into  such  condition 
that  no  cow  camp  would  have  tolerated  it. 

Sim  Gage  looked  at  the  heap  of  bedding  for  a  time 
gravely  and  carefully,  as  though  trying  to  find  some 
reason  for  his  friend's  dissatisfaction.  His  mouth 
began  to  work  as  it  always  did  when  he  was  engaged 
in  some  severe  mental  problem,  but  he  frowned  apolo 
getically  once  more  as  he  spoke. 

"Well,  Wid,  I  know,  I  know.  It  ain't  maybe  just 
the  thing  to  sleep  on  the  floor  all  the  time,  noways. 
You  see,  I  got  a  bunk  frame  made  for  her  over  there, 
and  it's  all  tight  and  strong — it  was  there  when  I  took 

2 


SIM  GAGE  AT  HOME 

this  cabin  over  from  the  Swede.  But  I  ain't  never 
just  got  around  to  moving  my  bed  off  en  the  floor  onto 
the  bedstead.  I  may  do  it  some  day.  Fact  is,  I  was 
just  a-going  to  do  it  anyways." 

"Just  a-going  to — like  hell  you  was!  You  been 
a-going  to  move  that  bed  for  four  years,  to  my  cer 
tain  knowledge,  and  I  know  that  in  that  time  you 
ain't  shuk  it  out  or  aired  it  onct,  or  made  it  up." 

"How  do  you  know  I  ain't  made  her  up?"  de 
manded  Sim  Gage,  his  knife  arrested  in  its  labors. 

"Well,  I  know  you  ain't.  It's  just  the  way  you've 
throwed  it  ever'  morning  since  I've  knowed  you  here. 
Move  it  up  on  the  bedstead? — First  thing  you  know 
you  can't." 

"Well,"  said  Sim,  sighing,  "some  folks  is  always 
making  other  folks  feel  bad.  I  ain't  never  found  fault 
with  the  way  you  keep  house  when  I  come  over  to 
your  place,  have  I?" 

"You  ain't  got  the  same  reason  for  to,"  replied 
Wid  Gardner.  "I  ain't  no  angel,  but  I  sure  try  to 
make  some  sort  of  bluff  like  I  was  human.  This 
place  ain't  human/' 

"Now  you  said  something  !**  remarked  Sim  sud 
denly,  after  a  time  spent  in  solemn  thought  "She 
ain't  human!  That's  right." 

He  made  no  explanation  for  some  time,  and  both 
men  sat  looking  vaguely  out  of  the  open  door  across 
the  wide  and  pleasant  valley  above  which  a  blue  and 
white-flecked  sky  bent  amiably.  A  wide  ridge  of  good 
grass  lands  lay  held  in  the  river's  bent  arm.  The 

3 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

wind  blew  steadily,  throwing  up  into  a  sheet  of  silver 
the  leaves  of  the  willows  which  followed  the  water 
courses.  A  few  quaking  asps  standing  near  the  cabin 
door  likewise  gave  motion  and  brightness  to  the  scene. 
The  air  was  brilliantly  cool  and  keen.  It  was  a  pleas 
ant  spot,  and  at  that  season  of  the  year  not  an  un 
comfortable  one.  Sim  Gage  had  lived  here  for  some 
years  now,  and  his  homestead,  originally  selected  with 
the  unconscious  sense  for  beauty  so  often  exercised 
by  rude  men  in  rude  lands,  was  considered  one  of  the 
best  in  the  Two-Forks  Valley. 

"Feller,  he  loses  hope  after  a  while,"  began  the 
owner  of  the  place  after  a  considerable  silence.  "Look 
at  me,  for  instance.  I  come  out  here  from  loway 
more'n  twenty-five  years  ago,  when  I  was  only  a  boy. 
When  my  pa  died  my  ma,  she  moved  back  to  loway. 
I  stuck  around  here,  like  you  and  lots  of  other  fellers, 
and  done  like  you  all,  just  the  best  I  could.  Some  way 
the  country  sort  of  took  a  holt  on  me.  It  does,  ain't 
it  the  truth  ?" 

His  friend  nodded  silently. 

"Well,  so  I  stuck  around  and  done  about  what  I 
could,  same  as  you,  ain't  that  so,  Wid?  I  prospected 
some,  but  you  know  how  hard  it  is  to  get  any  money 
into  a  mine,  no  matter  what  you've  found  fer  a  pros 
pect.  I  got  along  somehow — seems  like  folks  didn't 
use  to  pester  so  much,  the  way  they  do  to-day.  And 
you  know  onct  I  was  just  on  the  point  of  starting  out 
fer  Arizony  with  that  old  miner,  Pop  Haynes — do 

4 


SIM  GAGE  AT  HOME 

you  suppose  I'd  struck  anything  if  I'd  of  went  down 
there?" 

"Nobody  can  say  if  you  would  or  you  wouldn't," 
replied  Wid.  "Fact  is,  you  never  got  more'n  half 
started." 

"Well,  you  see,  this  old  feller,  Pop  Haynes,  he'd 
been  down  in  Arizony  twenty  years  before,  and  he 
said  there  was  lots  of  gold  out  there  in  the  desert. 
Well,  we  got  a  team  hooked  up,  and  a  little  flour  and 
bacon,  and  we  did  start — now,  I'll  leave  it  to  you,  Wid, 
if  we  didn't.  We  got  as  far  as  Big  Springs,  on  the 
railroad.  What  did  we  hear  then  ?  Why,  news  comes 
up  from  down  in  Arizony  that  a  railroad  has  went  out 
into  the  desert,  and  that  them  mines  has  been  discov 
ered.  What's  the  use  then  fer  us  to  start  fer  Arizony 
with  a  wagon  and  team?  Like  enough  all  the  good 
stakes  would  be  took  up  before  we  could  get  there, 
Old  Pop  and  me,  we  just  turned  back,  allowing  it  was 
the  sensiblest  tiling  to  do." 

"And  you  been  in  around  here  ever  since." 

"Yes,  sir;  yes,  sir,  that's  what  I  been.  Been  around 
here  ever  since.  I  told  you  the  country  kind  of  takes 
a  holt  on  a  feller.  Ain't  it  the  truth  ?  Well,  I  trapped 
a  little  since  then  in  the  winters,  and  killed  elk  for  the 
market  some,  like  you  know,  and  fished  through  the 
ice  over  on  the  lakes,  like  you  know.  Some  days  I'd 
make  three  or  four  dollars  a  day  fishing.  So  at  last 
when  that  Swede,  Big  Aleck,  got  run  out  of  the  coun 
try,  I  fell  into  his  ranch.  There  ain't  a  better  in  the 
whole  valley.  Look  at  that  hay  land,  Wid.  You  got 

5 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

to  admit  that  this  here  is  one  of  the  best  places  in  Mon- 
tany." 

"Well,  maybe  it  is,"  said  his  friend  and  neighbor. 
"Leastways,  it's  good  enough  to  run  like  you  mean 
to  run  it." 

"I'm  a-going  to  run  her  all  right.  She's  all  under 
wire — the  Swede  done  that  before  I  bought  his  quit 
claim.  Can't  no  sheep  get  in  on  me  here.  I'll  bet 
you  all  my  clothes  that  I'll  cut  six  hundred  ton  of  hay 
this  season — leastways  I  would  if  my  horse  hadn't 
hurt  hisself  in  the  wire  the  other  day.  Now,  you 
figure  up  what  six  hundred  ton  of  hay  comes  to  in  the 
stack,  at  prices  hay  is  bringing  now." 

"Trouble  is,  your  hay  ain't  in  the  stack,  Sim.  You'll 
just  about  cut  hay  enough  to  buy  yourself  flour  and 
bacon  for  next  winter,  and  that'll  be  about  alL  If 

you  worked  the  place  right  you'd  make  plenty  fer 
A  » 

"Fer  to  be  human  ?*' 

"Well,  yes,  that's  about  it,  Sim," 

"That's  right  hard — doing  all  your  own  work  out 
side  and  doing  all  your  own  cooking  and  everything 
all  the  time  in  your  own  house.  Just  living  along 
twenty  years  one  day  after  another,  all  by  your  own 
self,  and  never — never " 

His  voice  trailed  off  faintly,  and  he  left  the  sentence 
unfinished.  Wid  Gardner  completed  it  for  him. 

"And  never  having  a  woman  around?"  said  he. 

"Ain't  it  the  truth?"  said  Sim  Gage  suddenly.  His 
eyes  ran  furtively  around  the  room  in  which  they  sat, 

6 


SIM  GAGE  AT  HOME 

taking  in,  without  notin^  or  feeling,  the  unutterable 
squalor  of  the  place. 

"Well,"  said  his  friend  after  a  time,  rising,  "it'd 
be  a  fine  place  to  fetch  a  woman  to,  wouldn't  it?  But 
now  I  got  to  be  going — I  got  my  chores  to  do." 

"What's  your  hurry,  Wid?"  complained  the  occu 
pant  of  the  cabin.  "Cow'll  wait." 

"Yours  might,"  said  the  other  sententiously.  As 
he  spoke  he  was  making  his  way  to  the  door. 

The  sun  was  sinking  now  behind  the  range,  and  as 
he  stood  for  a  moment  looking  toward  the  west,  he 
might  himself  have  been  seen  to  be  a  man  of  some 
stature,  rugged  and  bronzed,  with  scores  of  wrinkles 
on  his  leathery  cheeks.  His  garb  was  the  rude  one 
of  the  West,  or  rather  of  that  remnant  of  the  Old 
West  which  has  been  consigned  to  the  dry  farmers 
and  hay  ranchers  in  these  modern  polyglot  days. 

Sim  Gage,  the  man  who  followed  him  out  and  stood 
for  a  time  in  the  unsparing  brilliance  of  the  evening 
sunlight,  did  not  compare  too  well  with  his  friend. 
He  was  a  man  of  absolutely  no  presence,  utterly  lack 
ing  attractiveness.  Not  so  much  pudgy  as  shapeless; 
he  had  been  shapeless  originally.  His  squat  figure 
showed,  to  be  sure,  a  certain  hardiness  and  vigor 
gained  in  his  outdoor  life,  but  he  had  not  even  the 
rude  grace  of  a  stalwart  manhood  about  him.  He 
sank  apologetically  into  a  lax  posture,  even  as  he 
stood.  His  pale  blue  eyes  lacked  fire.  His  hair,  un 
even,  ragged  and  hay-colored,  seemed  dry,  as  though 
hopeless,  discouraged,  done  with  life,  fringing  out  as 

7 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

it  did  in  gray  locks  under  the  edge  of  the  battered  hat 
he  wore.  He  had  'been  unshaven  for  days,  perhaps 
weeks,  and  his  beard,  unreaped,  showed  divers  colors, 
as  of  a  field  partially  ripening  here  and  there.  In 
general  he  was  undecided,  unfinished — yes,  surely  na 
ture  must  have  been  undecided  as  he  himself  was  about 
himself. 

His  clothing  was  such  as  might  have  been  predicted 
for  the  owner  of  the  nondescript  bed  resting  on  the 
cabin  floor.  His  neck,  grimed,  red  and  wrinkled  as 
that  of  an  ancient  turtle,  rose  above  his  bare  brown 
shoulders  and  his  upper  chest,  likewise  exposed.  His 
only  body  covering  was  an  undershirt,  or  two  under 
shirts.  Their  flannel  over-covering  had  left  them  ap 
parently  some  time  since,  and  as  for  the  remnant,  it 
had  known  such  wear  that  his  arms,  brown  as  those 
of  an  Indian,  were  bare  to  the  elbows.  He  was  al 
ways  thus,  so  far  as  any  neighbor  could  have  remem 
bered  him,  save  that  in  the  winter  time  he  cast  a 
sheepskin  coat  over  all.  His  short  legs  were  clad  in 
blue  overalls,  so  far  as  their  outside  cover  was  con 
cerned,  or  at  least  the  overalls  once  had  been  blue, 
though  now  much  faded.  Under  these,  as  might  be 
seen  by  a  glance  at  their  bottoms,  were  two,  three,  or 
possibly  even  more,  pairs  of  trousers,  all  borne  up 
and  suspended  at  the  top  by  an  intricate  series  of  ropes 
and  strings  which  crossed  his  half -bare  shoulders. 
One  might  have  searched  all  of  Sim  Gage's  cabin  and 
have  found  on  the  wall  not  one  article  of  clothing — 
he  wore  all  he  had,  summer  and  winter.  And  as  he 

8 


SIM  GAGE  AT  HOME 

was  now,  so  he  had  been  ever  since  his  nearest  neigh 
bor  could  remember.  A  picture  of  indifference,  apathy 
and  hopelessness,  he  stood,  every  rag  and  wrinkle  of 
him  sharply  outlined  in  the  clear  air. 

He  stood  uncertainly  now,  his  foot  turned  over,  as 
he  always  stood,  there  seeming  never  at  any  time  any 
determination  or  even  animation  about  him.  And  yet 
he  longed,  apparently,  for  some  sort  of  human  coni" 
panionship,  but  still  he  argued  with  his  friend  and 
asked  him  not  to  hurry  away. 

None  the  less  after  a  few  moments  Wid  Gardner 
did  turn  away.  He  passed  out  at  the  rail  bars  which 
fenced  off  the  front  yard  from  the  willow-covered 
banks  of  a  creek  which  ran  nearby.  A  half-dozen 
head  of  mixed  cattle  followed  him  up  to  the  gate,  seek 
ing  a  wider  world.  A  mule  thrust  out  his  long  head 
from  a  window  of  the  log  stable  where  it  was  im 
prisoned,  and  brayed  at  him  anxiously,  also  seeking 
outlet 

But  Sim  Gage,  apathetic,  one  foot  lopped  over, 
showed  no  agitation  and  no  ambition.  The  wisp  of 
grass  which  hung  now  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth 
seemed  to  suit  him  for  the  time.  He  stood  chewing 
and  looking  at  his  departing  visitor. 

"Some  folks  is  too  damn  dirty,"  said  Wid  Gardner 
to  himself  as  he  passed  now  along  the  edge  of  the 
willow  bank  toward  the  front  gate  of  his  own  ranch,  a 
half-mile  up  the  stream.  "And  him  talking  about  a 
woman!"  He  flung  out  his  hand  in  disgust  at  the 
mere  thought. 

9 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

That  is  to  say,  he  did  at  first.  Then  he  began  to 
walk  more  slowly.  A  touch  of  reflectiveness  came 
upon  his  own  face. 

"Still,"  said  he  to  himself  after  a  time — speaking 
aloud  as  men  of  the  wilderness  sometimes  learn  to  do 
—"I  don't  know!" 

He  turned  into  his  own  gate,  approached  his  own 
cabin,  its  exterior  much  like  that  of  the  one  which 
but  now  he  had  left  He  paused  for  a  moment  at  the 
door  as  he  looked  in,  regarding  its  somewhat  neater 
appearance. 

"Well,  and  even  so,"  said  he.  "I  don't  know.  Still 
and  after  all,  now,  a  woman — —" 


CHAPTER  II 

WANTED:  A  WIFE 

I   COULDN'T  have  ate  at  Sim's  place  if  he 
would  of  asked  me  to,"  grumbled  Wid  Gard 
ner  aloud  to  himself   as  he  busied   himself 
about  his  own  household  duties  in  his  bachelor  cabin. 
"He's  too  damn  dirty,  like  I  said,  and  that's  a  fact." 

Wid's  cabin  itself  was  in  general  appearance  no  bet 
ter,  if  no  worse,  than  the  average  in  the  Two  Forks 
Valley,  There  was  a  bed  on  a  rude  pole  frame — 
little  more  than  a  heap  of  blankets  as  they  had  been 
thrown  aside  that  morning.  The  table  still  held  the 
dishes  which  had  been  used,  but  at  least  these  had  been 
washed,  and  there  was  thrown  across  them  what  had 
served  as  a  dish-towel,  a  washed  and  dried,  fairly  clean 
flour  sack  which  had  been  ripped  out  and  turned  into 
a  towel.  There  was  a  box  nailed  up  behind  the  stove 
which  served  as  a  sort  of  store  room  for  the  scant 
supplies,  and  this  had  a  flap  at  the  top,  so  that  it  was 
partly  curtained  off.  Another  box  nailed  against  the 
wall  behind  the  table  served  as  book  case  and  paper 
rack,  holding,  among  a  scant  array  of  ancient  standard 
volumes,  a  few  dog-eared  paper-backed  books  of  cheap 
and  dreadful  sort,  some  illustrated  journals  showing 

ii 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

pictures  of  actresses  and  film  celebrities — precisely 
the  sort  of  literature  which  may  be  found  in  most  wiK 
derness  bachelor  homes. 

At  one  end  of  the  up-turned  box  which  served  as 
a  sort  of  reading  table  lay  a  pile  of  similar  maga 
zines,  not  of  abundant  folios,  but  apparently  valued, 
for  they  showed  more  care  than  any  other  of  the  own 
er's  treasures.  It  was,  curiously  enough,  to  this  little 
heap  of  literature  that  Wid  Gardner  presently  turned. 

Forgetful  of  the  hour  and  of  his  waiting  cows,  he 
sat  down,  a  copy  in  his  hands,  his  face  taking  on  a 
new  sort  of  light  as  he  read.  At  times,  as  lone  men 
will,  he  broke  out  into  audible  soliloquy.  Now  and 
again  his  hand  slapped  his  knee,  his  eye  kindled,  he 
grinned.  The  pages  were  ill-printed,  showing  many 
paragraphs,  apparently  of  advertising  nature,  in  fine 
type,  sometimes  marked  with  display  lines. 

Wid  turned  page  after  page,  grunting  as  he  did  so, 
until  at  last  he  tossed  the  magazine  upon  the  top  of 
the  box  and  so  went  about  his  evening  chores.  Thus 
the  title  of  the  publication  was  left  showing  to  any 
observer.  The  headline  was  done  in  large  black  let 
ters,  advising  all  who  might  have  read  that  this  was 
a  copy  of  the  magazine  known  as  Hearts  Aflame. 

Curiously  enough,  on  the  front  page  the  headline 
of  a  certain  advertisement  showed  plainly.  It  read, 
"Wanted :  A  Wife." 

From  this  it  may  be  divined  that  here  was  one  of 
those  periodicals  printed  no  one  knows  where,  cir 
culated  no  one  knows  how,  which  none  the  less  after 

12 


WANTED:  A  WIFE 

some  fashion  of  their  own  do  find  their  way  out  in 
all  the  womanless  regions  of  the  world — Alaska,  South 
Africa,  the  dry  plains  of  Canada  and  our  Western 
States,  mining  camps  far  out  in  the  outlying  districts 
beyond  the  edge  of  the  homekeeping  lands — it  is  in 
regions  such  as  these  that  periodicals  such  as  the  fore 
going  may  be  found.  Their  circulation  is  among  those 
who  seek  "acquaintance  with  a  view  to  matrimony." 
They  are  the  official  organs  of  Cupid  himself — of 
Cupid  commercialized,  or  Cupid  much  misnamed  and 
sailing  his  craft  upon  a  wide  and  uncharted  sea.  In 
lands  of  the  first  pick  or  the  first  plow,  these  half- 
illicit  pages  find  their  way  for  their  own  reasons ;  and 
men  and  women  both  sometimes  have  read  them 

Wid  Gardner  finished  his  own  brief  work  about  the 
corral,  came  in,  washed  his  hands,  and  began  to  cook 
for  himself  his  simple  supper.  Then  he  washed  his 
dishes,  threw  the  towel  above  them  as  before,  and 
went  to  bed,  since  he  had  little  else  to  do. 

Early  the  next  morning  Wid  had  finished  his  break 
fast,  and  was  at  the  edge  of  the  main  valley  road, 
which  passed  near  to  his  own  front  gate.  He  lighted 
a  pipe  and  sat  down  to  smoke,  now  and  again  glancing 
down  the  road  at  a  slowly  approaching  figure. 

It  was  the  schoolma'am,  Mrs.  Davidson,  wrho  daily 
presided  at  the  little  log  schoolhouse  a  mile  further 
on  up  the  road,  where  some  twenty  children  found 
their  way  over  varying  distances  from  the  surrounding 
ranches.  This  lady  was  of  much  dignity  and  of  much 
avoirdupois  as  well.  Her  ruddy  face  was  wrinkled 

13 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

up  somewhat  like  an  apple  in  the  late  fall.  She  walked 
slowly  and  ponderously,  and  her  gait  being  somewhat 
restricted,  it  was  needful  that  she  make  an  early  start 
each  day  to  her  place  of  labor,  since  the  only  possible 
boarding  place  lay  almost  a  mile  below  Sim  Gage's 
ranch.  She  had  been  the  only  applicant  for  this  school, 
and  perhaps  was  the  only  living  being  who  could  have 
contented  herself  in  that  capacity  in  this  valley.  Wid 
Gardner  pulled  at  the  edge  of  his  broken  hat  as  he 
stepped  down  the  narrow  road  to  meet  her. 

"  'Morning,  Mis'  Davidson,"  said  he, 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Gar-r-r-dner,"  boomed  out  the 
great  voice  of  Mrs.  Davidson,  "It  is  apparently  prom 
ising  us  fair  weather,  sir-r-r." 

Mrs.  Davidson  spoke  with  a  certain  singular  ro 
tund  exactness,  and  hence  was  held  much  in  awe 
in  all  these  parts. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Wid,  "it  looks  like  it  would 
rain,  but  it  won't." 

"Your  hay  in  that  case  would  not  flourish  so  well, 
Mr.  Gar-r-r-dner  ?"  said  she. 

"Without  rain,  not  worth  a  damn,  ma'am,  so  to 
speak.  But  I'll  get  by  if  any  one  can.  This  is  one  of 
the  best  locations  in  the  valley.  Me  and  Sim  Gage; 
and  Sim,  he  says " 

"Sim  Gage!"  The  lady  snorted  her  contempt  of 
the  very  name.  "That  man !  Altogether  impossible  !*' 

"He  shore  is.  He  certainly  is,"  assented  Wid 
Gardner.  "He  seems  to  be  getting  impossible-er  al 
most  every  year,  now,  don't  he  ?" 

14 


WANTED:  A  WIFE 

"1  do  not  care  to  discuss  Mr.  Gage,"  replied  the 
apostle  of  learning.  "I  was  in  his  abode  once.  I 
should  never  care  to  go  there  again." 

Already  she  was  lining  partially  forward,  pon 
derously,  as  about  to  resume  her  journey  toward  the 
school  house. 

"Well,  now,  Sim  Gage,"  began  Wid,  raising  a  re 
straining  hand,  "he  ain't  so  bad  as  you  might  think, 
ma'am.  He's  just  kind  of  fell  into  this  way  of  liv- 
ing." 

"Mr.  Gar-r-r-dner,"  said  the  lady  positively,  "I 
doubt  if  he  has  made  a  bed  or  washed  a  dish  in  twenty 
years.  His  place  is  worse  than  an  Indian  camp.  I 
have  taught  schools  among  the  savages  myself,  in 
Government  service,  and  therefore  I  may  speak  with 
authority." 

"Well,  now,  ma'am,  I  reckon  that's  all  true.  But 
you  see,  if  more  women  come  out  in  here,  now, 
things'd  be  different.  I  been  thinking  of  Sim  Gage, 
ma'am.  I  wanted  you  to  do  something  f  er  me,  or  him, 
ma'am/' 

"Indeed?"  demanded  she.  "And  what  may  that 
be?" 

"I  don't  mean  nothing  in  the  world  that  ain't  per 
fectly  all  right,"  began  Wid,  hesitatingly.  "I  only 
wanted  you  to  write  something  fer  me.  I'm  this  kind 
of  a  man,  that  when  he  wants  anything  to  be  fixed 
up,  he  wants  it  to  be  fixed  up  right.  I  kind  of  got 
out  of  practice  writing.  I  want  you  to  write  a  ad  fer 
me." 

15 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"A  what?"  she  demanded.  "Oh,  I  see — you  have 
something  to  sell?" 

"No,  ma'am,  I  ain't  got  nothing  to  sell — not  tin- 
lessen — well,  I'll  tell  you.  T  want  to  advertise  fer  a 
woman — fer  a  wife — that  is  to  say,  really  fer  him, 
Sim  Gage — a  feller's  got  to  have  something  to  sort 
of  occupy  his  mind,  hain't  he?" 

Mrs.  Davidson  was  too  much  astonished  to  speak, 
and  he  blundered  on. 

"Folks  has  done  such  things,"  said  he. 

"You  offer  me  a  somewhat  difficult  problem,"  re 
joined  the  other,  "since  I  do  not  in  the  least  under 
stand  what  you  desire  to  do." 

"Well,  it's  this  away,  ma'am.  There's  papers  that 
prints  these  ads — sometimes  big  dailies  does,  they  tell 
me — where  folks  advertises  for  acquaintances  just  fer 
to  get  acquainted,  you  know — 'acquaintance  with  a 
view  to  matrimony'  is  the  way  they  usually  say  it — 
and  that  may  be  a  tip  fer  you — I  mean  about  this  here 
ad  I  want  you  to  write.  Why,  folks  has  got  married 
that  way,  plenty  of  'em — I'll  bet  there  ain't  more'n 
half  the  homesteaders  in  this  state  out  here,  least 
ways  in  the  sagebrush  country,  that  didn't  get  mar 
ried  just  that  way — it's  the  onliest  way  they  can  get 
married,  ma'am,  half  the  time. 

"Once,  up  in  Helleny,  years  ago,  right  after  the 
old  Alder  Gulch  placer  mining  days,  there  was  eleven 
millionaires,  each  of  'em  married  to  a  Injun  woman, 
and  not  one  of  them  women  could  set  on  a  chair-^  with 
out  falling  off.  Now,  there  wasn't  no  papers  then 

16 


WANTED:  A  WIFE 

like  this  one  here,  or  them  millionaires  might  of  done 
better/' 

She  gasped,  unable  to  speak,  her  lips  rotund  and 
pursed,  and  he  went  on  with  more  assertiveness, 

"They  turn  out  just  as  good  as  any  marriages  there 
is,"  said  he.  "I've  knowed  plenty  of  'em.  There's 
three  in  this  valky — although  they  don't  say  much 
about  it  now.  /  know  how  they  got  acquainted,  all 
right" 

"And  you  desire  me  to  aid  you  in  your  endeavor 
to  entr-r-r-ap  some  foolish  woman?" 

"They  don't  have  to  answer.  They  don't  have  to 
get  married  if  they  don't  want  to.  You  can't  tell 
how  things'll  turn  out." 

"Indeed!     Indeed!" 

"Well,  now,  I  was  just  hoping  you  would  write  the 
ad,  that's  all  Just  you  write  me  a  ad  like  you  was 
a  sagebrusher  out  here  in  this  country,  and  you  was 
awful  lonesome,  and  had  a  good  ranch,  and  was  kind- 
hearted — and  not  too  good-looking — and  that  you'd 
be  kind  to  a  woman.  Well,  that's  about  as  far  as 
I  can  go.  I  was  going  to  leave  the  rest  to  you." 

Mrs.  Davidson's  lips  still  remained  round,  her  fore 
head  puckered.  She  leaned  ponderously,  fell  forward 
into  her  weighty  walk. 

"I  make  no  promise,  sir-r-r!"  said  she,  as  she  veered 
in  passing. 

But  still,  human  psychology  being  what  it  is,  and 
woman's  curiosity  what  it  also  is,  and  Mrs.  David 
son  being  after  all  woman,  that  evening  when  Wid 

17 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

Gardner  passed  out  to  his  gate,  he  found  pinned  to 
the  fastening  stick  an  envelope  which  he  opened  curi 
ously.  He  spelled  out  the  words : 

"Wanted:  A  Wife.  A  well-to-do  and  chivalrous 
rancher  of  abundant  means  and  large  holdings  in  a 
Western  State  wishes  to  correspond  with  a  respectable 
young  woman  who  will  be  willing  to  appreciate  a  good 
home  and  loving  care.  Object — matrimony." 

Wid  Gardner  read  this  once,  and  he  read  it  twice, 
"Good  God  A 'mighty!"  said  he  to  himself.  "Sim 
Gage!" 

He  turned  back  to  his  cabin,  and  managed  to  find 
a  corroded  pen  and  the  part  of  a  bottle  of  thickened 
ink.  With  much  labor  he  signed  to  the  text  of  his 
enclosure  two  initials,  and  added  his  own  post  office 
route  box  for  forwarding  of  any  possible  replies. 
Then  he  addressed  a  dirty  envelope  to  the  street  num 
ber  of  the  eastern  city  which  appeared  on  the  page  of 
his  matrimonial  journal.  Even  he  managed  to  fish 
out  a  curled  stamp  from  somewhere  in  the  wall  pocket. 
Then  he  sat  down  and  looked  out  the  door  over  the 
willow  bushes  shivering  in  the  evening  air. 

"  'Chiz/aJerous!'  "  said  he.  "  "Well-to-do!  A  good 
home — and  loving  care!'  If  that  can  be  put  acrosst 
with  any  woman  in  the  whole  wide  world,  I'll  have 
faith  again  in  prospectin'  1" 


CHAPTER  III 

FIFTTf-FIFTY 

IT  was  late  fall  or  early  winter  in  the  city  of  Cleve 
land.  An  icy  wind,  steel-tipped,  came  in  from 
the  frozen  shores  of  Lake  Erie,  piercing  the 
streets,  dark  with  soot  and  fog  commingled.  It  was 
evening,  and  the  walks  were  covered  with  crowded 
and  hurrying  human  beings  seeking  their  own  homes 
— men  done  with  their  office  labors,  young  women 
from  factories  and  shops.  These  bent  against  the  bit 
ter  wind,  some  apathetically,  some  stoutly,  some  with 
the  vigor  of  youth,  yet  others  with  the  slow  gait  of 
approaching  age, 

Mary  Warren  and  her  room-mate,  Annie  Squires, 
met  at  a  certain  street  corner,  as  was  their  daily  wont  ; 
the  former  coming  from  her  place  in  one  of  the  great 
department  stores,  the  other  from  her  work  in  a  fac 
tory  six  blocks  up  the  street. 

"  'Lo,  Mollie,"  said  Annie;  and  her  friend  smiled, 
as  she  always  did  at  their  chill  corner  rendezvous. 
They  found  some  sort  of  standing  room  together  in 
a  crowded  car,  swinging  on  the  straps  as  it  screeched 
its  way  around  the  curves,  through  the  crowded  por 
tions  of  the  city.  It  was  long  before  they  got  seats, 

19 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

three-quarters  of  an  hour,  for  they  lived  far  out  Ten 
dollars  a  week  does  not  give  much  in  the  way  of  quar 
ters.  It  might  have  been  guessed  that  these  two  were 
partners,  room-mates. 

"Gee!  These  cars  is  fierce,"  said  Annie  Squires, 
with  a  smile  and  a  wide  glance  into  the  eyes  of  a  young 
man  against  whom  she  had  been  flung,  although  she 
spoke  to  her  companion. 

Mary  Warren  made  no  complaint.  Her  face,  calm 
and  gentle,  carried  neither  repining  nor  resignation, 
but  a  high  and  resolute  courage.  She  shrank  far  as 
she  might,  like  a  gentlewoman,  from  personal  contact 
with  other  human  beings;  the  little  droop  beginning 
at  the  corners  of  her  mouth  gave  proof  of  her  weari 
ness,  but  there  was  a  thoroughbred  vigor,  a  silken- 
strong  fairness  about  her,  which,  with  the  self-respect 
ing  erectness  in  her  carriage,  rather  belied  the  com 
mon  garb  she  wore.  Her  frock  was  that  of  the  sales 
woman,  her  gloves  were  badly  worn,  her  boots  began 
to  show  signs  of  breaking,  her  hat  was  of  nondescript 
sort,  of  small  pretensions — yet  Mary  Warren's  atti 
tude,  less  of  weariness  than  of  resistance,  had  some 
thing  of  the  ivory-fine  gentlewoman  about  it,  even 
here  at  the  end  of  a  rasping  winter  day. 

Annie  Squires  was  dressed  with  a  trifle  more  of  the 
pretension  which  ten  dollars  a  week  allows.  She  car 
ried  a  sort  of  rude  and  frank  vitality  about  her,  a 
healthful  color  in  her  face,  not  wholly  uncomely.  She 
was  a  trifle  younger  than  Mary  Warren — the  latter 
might  have  been  perhaps  five  and  twenty;  perhaps  a 

20 


FIFTY-FIFTY 

little  older,  perhaps  not  quite  so  old — but  none  the 
less  seemed  if  not  the  more  strong,  at  least  the  more 
self-confident  of  the  two.  A  great-heart,  Annie 
Squires;  out  of  nothing,  bound  for  nowhere.  Two 
great-hearts,  indeed,  these  two  tired  girls,  going  home. 

"Well,  the  Dutch  seems  to  be  having  their  own 
troubles  now,"  said  Annie  after  a  time,  when  at  length 
the  two  were  able  to  find  seats,  a  trifle  to  themselves 
in  a  corner  of  the  car.  "Looks  like  they  might  learn 
how  the  war  thing  goes  the  other  way  'round.  Gee! 
I  wish't  I  was  a  man!  I'd  show  'em  peace!" 

She  went  on,  passing  from  one  headline  to  the  next 
of  the  evening  paper  which  they  took  daily  turns  in 
buying.  Mary  Warren  began  to  grow  more  grave  of 
face  as  she  heard  the  news  from  the  lands  where  not 
long  ago  had  swung  and  raged  in  their  red  grapple 
the  great  armies  of  the  world. 

Then  a  sudden  remorse  came  to  Annie,  She  put  out 
a  hand  to  Mary  Warren's  arm.  "Don't  mind,  Sis," 
said  she.  "Plenty  more  besides  your  brother  is  gone. 
Lookit  here," 

"He  was  all  I  had,"  said  Mary  simply,  her  lips 
trembling. 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  what's  up  to-night,  Mollie? 
You're  still.  Anything  gone  wrong  at  the  store?" 
She  was  looking  at  her  room-mate  keenly.  This  was 
their  regular  time  for  mutual  review  and  for  the  re 
storing  gossip  of  the  day. 

"Well,  you  see,  Annie,  they  told  me  that  times  were 
hard  now  after  the  war,  and  more  girls  ready  to 

21 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

work."  Mary  Warren  only  answered  after  a  long 
time.  A  passenger,  sitting  near,  was  just  rising  to 
leave  the  car. 

Annie  also  said  nothing  for  a  time.  "It  looks  bad, 
Mollie,"  said  she,  sagely. 

Mary  Warren  made  no  answer  beyond  nodding 
bravely,  high-headed.  Ten  dollars  a  week  may  be  an 
enormous  sum,  even  when  countries  but  now  have 
been  juggling  billions  carelessly. 

They  were  now  near  the  end  of  their  daily  journey. 
Presently  they  descended  from  the  car  and,  bent 
against  the  icy  wind,  made  their  way  certain  blocks 
toward  the  door  which  meant  home  for  them.  They 
clumped  up  the  stairs  of  the  wooden  building  to  the 
third  floor,  and  opened  the  door  to  their  room. 

It  was  cold.  There  was  no  fire  burning  in  the  stove 
— they  never  left  one  burning,  for  they  furnished  their 
own  fuel ;  and  in  the  morning,  even  in  the  winter  time, 
they  rose  and  dressed  in  the  cold. 

"Never  mind,  dear,"  said  Annie  again,  and  pushed 
Mary  down  into  the  rocking  chair  as  she  would  have 
busied  herself  with  the  kindling.  "Let  me,  now.  I 
wish't  coal  wasn't  so  high.  There's  times  I  almost 
lose  my  nerve." 

A  blue  and  yellow  flame  at  last  began  back  of  the 
mica-doored  stove  which  furnished  heat  for  the  room. 
The  girls,  too  tired  and  cold  to  take  off  their  wraps, 
sat  for  a  time,  their  hands  against  the  slowly  heat 
ing  door.  Now  and  again  they  peered  in  to  see  how 
the  fire  was  doing. 

22 


FIFTY-FIFTY 

Mary  Warren  rose  and  laid  aside  her'  street  garb. 
When  she  turned  back  again  she  still  had  in  her  hands 
trie  long  knitting  needles,  the  ball  of  yellowish  yarn, 
the  partially  knitted  garment,  which  of  late  had  been 
so  common  in  America. 

"Aw,  Sis,  cut  it  out !"  grumbled  Annie,  and  reached 
to  take  the  knitting  away  from  her  friend.  "The 
war's  over,  thank  God !  Give  yourself  a  chanct.  Get 
warm  first,  anyways.  You'll  ruin  your  eyes — didn't 
the  doctor  tell  you  so?  You  got  one  bum  lamp  right 
now." 

"Worse  things  than  having  trouble  with  your  eyes, 
Annie." 

"Huh!  It'll  help  you  a  lot  to  have  your  eyes  go 
worse,  won't  it?" 

"But  I  can't  forget.  I — I  can't  seem  to  forget 
Dan,  my  brother."  Mary's  voice  trailed  off  vaguely. 
"He's  the  last  kin  I  had.  Well,  I  was  all  he  had,  his 
next  of  kin,  so  they  sent  me  his  decoration.  And 
I'm  the  last  of  our  family — and  a  woman — and — 
and  not  seeing  very  well.  Annie,  he  was  my  reliance 
— and  I  was  his,  poor  boy,  because  of  his  trouble,  that 
made  him  a  half -cripple,  though  he  got  into  the  fly 
ing  corps  at  last.  I'm  alone.  And,  Annie — that  was 
what  was  the  trouble  at  the  store.  I'm — it's  my 
eyes" 

They  both  sat  for  a  long  time  in  silence.  Her 
room-mate  fidgeted  about,  walked  away,  fiddled  with 
her  hair  before  the  dull  little  mirror  at  the  dresesr. 
At  length  she  turned. 

23 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Sis,"  said  she,  "it  ain't  no  news.  I  know,  and 
I've  knew  it.  I  got  to  talk  some  sense  to  you." 

The  dark  glasses  turned  her  way,  unwaveringly, 
bravely. 

"You're  going  to  lose  your  job,  Sis,  as  soon  as  the 
Christmas  rush  is  over,"  Annie  finished.  She  saw 
the  sudden  shudder  which  passed  through  the  straight 
figure  beside  the  stove. 

"Oh,  I  know  it's  hard,  but  it's  the  truth.  Now, 
listen.  Your  folks  are  all  dead.  Your  last  one,  Dan, 
your  brother,  is  dead,  and  you  got  no  one  else.  It's 
just  as  well  to  face  things.  What  I've  got  is  yours, 
of  course,  but  how  much  have  we  got,  together? 
What  chanct  has  a  girl  got?  And  a  blind  woman's 
a  beggar,  Sis.  It's  tough.  But  what  are  you  going  to 
dot  Girls  is  flocking  back  out  of  Washington.  The 
war  factories  is  closing.  There's  thousands  on  the 
streets." 

"Annie,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  now,  hush,  Sis!  Don't  look  at  me  that  way, 
even  through  your  glasses.  It  hurts.  We've  just  got 
to  face  things.  You've  got  to  live.  How?" 

"Well,  then,"  said  Mary  Warren,  suddenly  rising, 
her  hands  to  her  hot  cheeks,  "well,  then — and  what 
then  ?  I  can't  be  a  burden  on  you — you've  done  more 
than  your  half  ever  since  I  first  had  to  go  to  the  doc 
tor  about  my  eyes." 

"Cut  all  that  out,  now,"  said  Annie,  her  eyes  omi 
nous.  "I  done  what  you'd  a-done.  But  one  girl 
can't  earn  enough  for  two,  at  ten  per,  and  be  decent. 

24 


FIFTY-FIFTY 

Go  out  on  the  streets  and  see  the  boys  still  in  their 
uniforms.  Every  one's  got  a  girl  on  his  arm,  and 
the  best  lookers,  too.  What  then?  As  for  the  love 
and  marriage  stuff — well ' 

"As  though  you  didn't  know  better  yourself  than 
to  talk  the  way  you  do!"  said  Mary  Warren. 

"I'm  different  from  you,  Mollie.  I — I  ain't  so  fine. 
You  know  why  I  liked  you?  Because  you  was  dif 
ferent;  and  I  didn't  come  from  much  or  have  much 
schooling.  I've  been  to  school  to  you — and  you  never 
knew  it.  I  owe  you  plenty,  and  you  won't  under 
stand  even  that." 

Mary  only  kissed  her,  but  Annie  broke  free  and  went 
on. 

"When  they  come  to  talk  about  the  world  going 
on,  and  folks  marrying,  and  raising  children,  after 
this  war  is  over — you've  got  to  hand  it  to  them  that 
this  duty  stuff  has  got  a  strong  punch  behind  it. 
Besides,  the  kid  idea  makes  a  hit  with  me.  But  even 
if  I  did  marry,  I  don't  know  what  a  man  would  say, 
these  times,  about  my  bringing  some  one  else  into  his 
house.  Men  is  funny." 

"Annie — Annie!"  exclaimed  Mary  Warren  once 
more.  "Don't — oh,  don't!  I'd  die  before  I'd  go  into 
your  own  real  home!  Of  course,  I'll  not  be  a  burden 
on  you.  I'm  too  proud  for  that,  I  hope." 

"Well,  dope  it  out  your  own  way,  Sis,"  said  her 
room-mate,  sighing.  "It  ain't  true  that  I  want  to 
shake  you.  I  don't.  But  I'm  not  talking  about  Mary 
Warren  when  she  had  money  her  aunt  left  her — be- 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

fore  she  lost  it  in  Oil.  I'm  not  talking  about  Mary 
Warren  when  she  was  eighteen,  and  pretty  as  a  pic 
ture.  I  ain't  even  talking  about  Mary  a  year  ago, 
wearing  dark  glasses,  but  still  having  a  good  chanct 
in  the  store.  What  I'm  talking  about  now  is  Mary 
Warren  down  and  out,  with  not  even  eyes  to  see  with, 
and  no  money  back  of  her,  and  no  place  to  go.  What 
are  you  going  to  do,  Sis?  that's  all.  In  my  case — be 
lieve  me,  if  I  lose  my  chanct  at  this  man,  Charlie 
Dorenwald,  I'm  going  to  find  another  some  time. 

"It's  fifty-fifty  if  either  of  us,  or  any  girl,  would 
get  along  all  right  with  a  husband  if  we  could  get  one 
— it's  no  cinch.  And  now,  women  getting  plentier 
and  plentier,  and  men  still  scarcer  and  scarcer,  it's 
sure  tough  times  for  a  girl  that  hasn't  eyes  nor  any 
thing  to  get  work  with,  or  get  married  with." 

"Annie!"  said  her  companion.  "I  wish  you 
wouldn't!" 

"Well,  I  wasn't  thinking  how  I  talked,  Sis,"  said 
Annie,  reaching  out  a  hand  to  pat  the  white  one  on 
the  chair  arm.  "But  fifty-fifty,  my  dear — that's  all 
the  bet  ever  was  or  will  be  for  a  woman,  and  now  her 
odds  is  a  lot  worse,  they  say,  even  for  the  well  and 
strong  ones.  Maybe  part  of  the  trouble  with  us  wo 
men  was  we  never  looked  on  this  business  of  getting 
married  with  any  kind  of  halfway  business  sense. 
Along  comes  a  man,  and  we  get  foolish.  Lord! 
Oughtn't  both  of  us  to  know  about  bargain  counters 
and  basement  sales?" 

"Well,  let's  eat,  Mary,"  she  concluded,  seeing  she 

26 


FIFTY-FIFTY 

had  no  answer.  And  Mary  Warren,  broken-hearted, 
high-headed,  silent,  turned  to  the  remaining  routine 
of  the  day. 

Annie  busied  herself  at  the  little  box  behind  the 
stove — a  box  with  a  flap  of  white  cloth,  which  served 
as  cupboard.  Here  she  found  a  coffee  pot,  a  half 
loaf  of  bread,  some  tinned  goods,  a  pair  of  apples. 
She  put  the  coffee  pot  to  boil  upon  the  little  stove, 
pushing  back  the  ornamental  acorn  which  covered  the 
lid  at  its  top.  Meantime  Mary  drew  out  the  little 
table  which  served  them,  spread  upon  it  its  white 
cloth,  and  laid  the  knives  and  forks,  scanty  enough 
in  their  number. 

They  ate  as  was  their  custom  every  evening.  Not 
two  girls  in  all  Cleveland  led  more  frugal  lives  than 
these,  nor  cleaner,  in  every  way. 

"Let  me  wash  the  dishes,  Sis,"  said  Annie  Squires. 
"You  needn't  wipe  them — no,  that's  all  right  to 
night.  Let  me,  now." 

"You're  fine,  Annie,  you're  fine,  that's  what  you 
are!"  said  Mary  Warren.  "You're  the  best  girl  in 
the  world.  But  we'll  make  it  fifty-fifty  while  we  can. 
I'm  going  to  do  my  share." 

"I  suppose  we'd  better  do  the  laundry,  too,  don't 
you  think?"  she  added.  "We  don't  want  the  fire  to 
get  too  low." 

They  had  used  their  single  wash  basin  for  their 
dish  pan  as  well,  and  now  it  was  impressed  to  yet 
another  use.  Each  girl  found  in  her  pocket  a  cheap 
handkerchief  or  so.  Annie  now  plunged  these  in  the 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

wash  basin's  scanty  suds,  washed  them,  and,  going  to 
the  mirror,  pasted  them  against  the  glass,  flattening 
them  out  so  that  in  the  morning  they  might  be 
"ironed,"  as  she  called  it.  This  done,  each  girl  delib 
erately  sat  down  and  removed  her  shoes  and  stock 
ings.  The  stockings  themselves  now  came  in  for 
washing — an  alternate  daily  practice  with  them  both 
since  Mary  had  come  hither.  They  hung  the  stock 
ings  over  the  back  of  the  solitary  spare  chair,  just 
close  enough  to  the  stove  to  get  some  warmth,  and 
not  close  enough  to  burn — long  experience  had  taught 
them  the  exact  distance. 

They  huddled  bare-footed  closer  to  the  stove,  until 
Annie  rose  and  tiptoed  across  to  get  a  pair  each  of 
cheap  straw  slippers  which  rested  below  the  bed. 

"Here's  yours,  Sis,"  said  she.  "You  just  sit  still 
and  get  warm  as  you  can  before  we  turn  in — it's  an 
awful  night,  and  the  fire's  beginning  to  peter  out  al 
ready.  I  wish't  Mr.  McAdoo,  or  whoever  it  is,  'd  see 
about  this  coal  business.  Gee,  I  hope  these  things'll 
get  dry  before  morning — there  ain't  anything  in  the 
world  any  colder  than  a  pair  of  wet  stockings  in  the 
morning!  Let's  turn  in — it'll  be  warmer,  I  believe." 

The  wind,  steel-pointed,  bored  at  the  window  cas 
ings  all  that  night.  Degree  after  degree  of  frost  would 
have  registered  in  that  room  had  means  of  registra 
tion  been  present.  The  two  young  women  huddled 
closer  under  the  scanty  covering  that  they  might  find 
warmth.  Ten  dollars  a  week.  Two  great-hearts, 
neither  of  them  more  than  a  helpless  girl. 

28 


CHAPTER  IV 

HEARTS  AFLAME 

THEY  rose  the  next  morning  and  dressed  in  the 
room  without  fire,  shivering  now  as  they  drew 
on  their  stockings,  frozen  stiff.  They  had  their 
morning  coffee  in  a  chilly  room  downstairs,  where 
sometimes  their  slatternly  landlady  appeared,  lugu 
briously  voluble.  This  morning  they  ate  alone,  in 
silence,  and  none  too  happily.  Even  Annie's  buoyant 
spirits  seemed  inadequate.  A  trace  of  bitterness  was 
in  her  tone  when  she  spoke. 

"I'm  sick  of  it" 

"Yes,  Annie,"  said  Mary  Warren.  "And  it's  cold 
this  morning,  awfully." 

"Cotton  vests,  marked  down — to  what  wool  used 
to  be.  Huh!  Call  this  America?" 

"What's  wrong,  Annie?"  suddenly  asked  Mary 
Warren,  drawing  her  wrap  closer  as  she  sat. 

"I'd  go  to  the  lake  before  I'd  go  to  the  streets, 
though  you  mightn't  think  it.  But  how  about  it  with 
only  the  discards  in  Derby  hats  and  false  teeth  left? 
If  we  two  are  going  to  get  married,  Mollie,  vvt  __,'.>.- 
to  look  around  among  the  remnants  and  bargains — 
we  can't  be  too  particular  when  we're  hunting  bar- 

29 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

gains.  Whether  it's  all  off  for  you  at  the  store  or 
not  ain't  for  me  to  say,  but  you  might  do  worse  than 
listen  to  me." 

Mary  Warren  looked  at  her  in  a  sort  of  horror. 
"Annie,  what  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded. 

The  real  reply  came  in  the  hard  little  laugh  with 
which  Annie  Squires  drew  from  the  pocket  of  her 
coat — in  which  she  also  was  muffled  at  the  breakfast 
table — a  meager  little  newspaper,  close-folded.  She 
spread  it  out  before  she  passed  it  to  her  companion. 

"Hearts  Aflame!"  said  she.  "W'hile  you  have  to 
dry  your  own  socks,  while  you  break  the  ice  in  your 
coffee!  Can't  you  feel  your  heart  flame?  Anyway, 
here  you  are — bargains  in  husbands  and  wives !  Take 
'em  for  the  asking.  Here's  a  lot  of  them  advertised. 
Slightly  damaged,  but  serviceable — and  marked  down 
within  the  reach  of  all. 

"Why,  us  girls  over  at  the  shop,  we  read  these 
things  regular,"  she  rattled  on  in  explanation,  her 
mouth  full.  "Somt.  of  the  girls  answer  these  ads — 
it's  lots  of  fun.  You  ought  to  see  what  some  of  the 
men  write  back.  Look  at  this  one,  Sis!"  said  she, 
chuckling.  "Some  class  to  it,  eh?"  She  pointed  to 
an  advertisement  a  trifle  larger  than  its  fellows,  a 
trifle  more  boldly  displayed  in  its  black  type. 

"Wanted:  A  Wife.  A  well-to-do  and  chivalrous 
rancher  of  abundant  means  and  large  holdings  in  a 
We<^om  State  wishes  to  correspond  with  a  respectable 
young  woman  who  will  appreciate  a  good  home  and 
loving  care.  Object — Matrimony." 

30 


HEARTS  AFLAME 

"How  ridiculous,"  said  Mary  Warren  simply. 

"Uh  huh!  Is  it,  though?  I  don't  know.  I  put 
this  thing  to  my  ear,  and  it  sort  of  sounded  as  if  there 
was  something  behind  it.  That  fellow  wants  a  woman 
of  his  own  to  keep  house  for  him.  Out  there  women 
are  scarce.  It's  supply  and  demand,  Sis,  same  as  in 
your  store.  Well,  here's  a  man  looking  for  goods. 
So'm  I.  I've  been  looking  him  over^  for  myself,  be 
cause  I  ain't  as  strong  for  Charlie  Dorenwald  as  I 
might  be,  even  if  he's  foreman.  He  talks  so  damn 
much  Bolshevik,  somehow.  Of  course,  the  country's 
rotten,  but  it's  ours!  Still  and  all,  I'll  tell  you  what 
I'll  do,  Sis,  with  you !" 

She  pulled  her  chair  up  to  the  side  of  her  compan 
ion,  fumbling  in  her  little  purse  as  she  did  so;  drew 
out  a  copper  coin  and  held  it  balanced  between  her 
fingers. 

"  'The  one  shall  be  taken  and  the  other  left,'  Sis," 
said  she.  "Two  women,  grinding  at  the  mill,  the 
same  little  old  mill,  as  the  Bible  said;  and  'The  one 
shall  be  taken  and  the  other  left.'  Which  one?  One 
throw,  Mary.  Heads  or  tails.  It's  got  to  hit  the 
ceiling  before  it  falls." 

"Why,  nonsense,  Annie No,  no!" 

"Heads  or  tails!"  insisted  Annie  Squires;  and  as 
she  spoke  she  flipped  the  coin  against  the  ceiling.  It 
rolled  toward  the  street  window,  where  neither  of 
them  at  first  could  see  it. 

"Tails!"  called  Mary  Warren  faintly,  suddenly.  It 
31 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

seemed  to  her  she  heard  some  other  voice,  speaking 
for  her,  without  her  real  volition. 

"You're  on!"  said  Annie.  They  both  rose  and 
walked  toward  the  darker  side  of  the  room. 

"I  can't  see,"  said  Mary.    "Strike  a  match." 

Annie  did  so,  and  they  both  bent  over  the  coin. 

"Tails — you  win!"  said  Annie  Squires.  "Well, 
what  do  you  know  about  that?" 

She  was  half  m  earnest  about  her  chagrin — half  in 
earnest  as  she  spoke.  "I'd  saved  him  for  myself. 
Sometimes,  I  say,  I  don't  know  about  this  Charlie 
Dorenwald,  even  if  he  is  crazy  over  me — I'm  mostly 
being  beware  of  foremen,  me.  And  here's  a  chivalrous 
and  well-to-do  ranchman — out  West!  Gee!  Con 
gratulations,  Sis!" 


CHAPTER  V 

BEGGAR  MAN THIEF 

THEY    laughed    like    girls,    each    with    slightly 
heightened  color  in  spite  of  all  the  make-be 
lieve.     Then  Annie  ran  to  a  vase  of  artificial 
flowers  which  stood  upon  the  mantel,  and  pulled  out 
a  draggled  daisy. 

"What's  he  going  to  be,  Kid — your  man?     Is  he 

rich  or  poor?     Listen!     'Lawyer — doctor — merchant 

—  chief  —  rich    man  —  poor    man  —  beggar    man  — 

thief—  She  stopped  in  a  certain  consternation, 

the  last  petal  in  her  hand — "A  thief  ? " 

"Why,  Annie,  you  surely  don't  believe  in  such 
things,"  said  Mar}-  Warren  reprovingly.  "And  of 
course  we  oughtn't  to  have  done  anything  foolish  as 
this.  It's — it's  awful." 

Annie,  her  mood  suddenly  changing,  drew  apart 
and  sat  down  moodily. 

"You  couldn't  blame  a  fellow  for  trying  to  forget 
things,  Sis,"  said  she.  "Look  at  me.  I'm  on  the 
street,  you  might  say — they  canned  me  yesterday! 
Yes!  that's  the  truth.  I  wasn't  going  to  tell  you— 
you  looked  so  cold  last  night,  and  you  with  your  eyes 

33 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

what  they  are.  It — it  looks  like  Charlie  had  a  chance, 
eh?" 

Mary  Warren  looked  at  her  for  a  time  in  silence. 
"You'll  never  have  to  toss  a  copper  for  a  husband, 
I'm  sure  of  that  If  I  were  handsome  as  you— 

"Oh,  am  I?"  said  her  companion.  "Men  hang 
around — what  does  it  get  me?  Time  passes.  Where 
are  we  pretty  soon?  Men  ain't  all  husbands  that 
make  love," 

"How  much  money  you  got  saved  up,  Mary?"  she 
asked  suddenly. 

"Just  one  hundred  thirty-five  dollars  and  eighty 
cents,"  said  Mary,  not  needing  to  consult  her  pass 
book.  "I  can  pay  for  my  bond  now." 

"Got  me  beat.  Best  I  can  do  for  my  life  savings 
is  fifty-eight  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents.  How  long 
will  that  last  you  and  me?" 

"You're  despondent,  Annie — you  mustn't  feel  blue 
— why,  to-morrow  we'll  both  go  out  and  see  what  we 
can  do." 

"About  me  ?"  I  like  that !  It's  you  we  got  to  bother 
about.  My  Lord !  It  ain't  so  far  off,  this  ad  in  Hearts 
Aflame!  What  you  really  do  need  is  a  man  who'll  be 
kind  and  chivalrous  with  you." 

"I  haven't  got  to  that  yet,"  said  Mary  Warren, 
stoutly.  Her  color  rose. 

"No?  Funnier  things  have  happened.  You  might 
do  worse." 

"I'm  not  bred  that  way,  Annie,"  said  Mary  War- 

34 


BEGGAR  MAN— THIEF 

ren,  slowly;  but  her  color  rising  yet  more  as  she  real 
ized  that  perhaps  she  had  been  cruel. 

"You  needn't  explain  anything  to  me,"  replied  An 
nie.  "I'm  not  sore.  You  came  of  a  better  family, 
and  so  it'll  be  harder  for  you  to  get  through  life  than 
it  is  for  me." 

As  she  spoke  she  had  risen,  and  was  buttoning  her 
street  wraps.  Mary  Warren  sat  silent,  the  dark  lenses 
of  her  glasses  turned  toward  her  companion. 

"Beggar  man — thief !"  she  said  at  last  "I'd  be  rob 
bing  him,  even  then!"  She  smiled  bitterly.  "Who'd 
take  met" 


CHAPTER  VI 

RICH  MAN POOR  MAN 

WHEN  spring  came  above  the  icy  shores  of  the 
inland  seas,  Mary  Warren  had  been  out  of 
work  for  more  than  three  months.     She  was 
ill ;  ill  of  body,  ill  of  mind,  ill  of  heart.    Her  splendid, 
resilient  courage  had  at  last  begun  to  break.    She  was 
facing  the  thought  that  she  could  not  carry  her  own 
weight  in  the  world. 

She  sat  alone  once  more  one  evening  in  the  little 
room  which  after  all  thus  far  she  and  Annie  had  been 
able  to  retain.  Her  oculist  had  taken  much  from  her 
scanty  store  of  money.  She  held  in  her  hand  his  last 
bill — unpaid;  and  though  she  had  paid  a  score  of  his 
bills,  yet  her  eyesight  now  was  nearly  gone.  Her 
doctor  called  it  "retinal  failure";  and  it  had  steadily 
advanced,  whatever  it  was.  Now  she  knew  that  there 
was  no  hope. 

She  greeted  the  homecoming  of  her  room-mate  each 
nightfall  with  eagerness,  Annie  by  this  time  had 
found  harder  and  worse  paid  work  in  another  factory. 
She  came  in  with  her  hands  scarred  and  torn,  her  nails 
broken  and  stained.  She  had  grown  more  reticent  of 
late. 

36 


RICH  MAN— POOR  MAN 

"Well,  how  are  things  coming  along,  Sis?"  said  she 
this  evening  on  her  return,  after  she  had  thrown  her 
wrap  across  a  chair  back.  "How  much  money  have 
you  got  left?  You  look  to  me  like  you  was  counting 
it." 

"Not  very  much,  Annie — not  very  much.  The  doc 
tor — you  see,  I  can't  take  his  time  and  not  pay  him." 

"You're  too  thin-skinned.    What  are  doctors  for?" 

"But,  Annie,  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I'm  scared. 
That's  the  truth  about  it — I'm  scared !" 

Her  companion  smiled,  with  her  new  slow  and  cyn 
ical  smile.  "Some  of  us  go  to  the  lake — or  to  a  man 
— or  to  men,"  said  she,  succinctly.  "Look  over  the 
stock  of  goods  that's  within  your  means.  Bargains. 
Odds  and  Ends." 

"What  could  I  do?" 

"Suppose  you  got  married  to  your  gentle  and  chiv 
alrous  rancher  out  West.  Maybe  you'd  be  able  to 
stand  it  after  a  while,  even  if  he  dyed  his  hair,  or  had 
his  neck  shaved  round.  Mostly  they  have  false  teeth 
—before  they'll  advertise.  Probably  he's  a  wid 
ower.  Object:  matrimony;  that  mostly  is  a  widower's 
main  object  in  life;  and  you  can't  show  'em  nothing 
except  when  you  bury  'em." 

"I'd  die  before  I'd  answer  that  sort  of  a  thing!" 
said  Mary  Warren  hotly. 

"You  would,"  replied  Annie.  "I  know  that.  I  knew 
it  all  along.  That's  why  I  had  to  take  it  into  my 
own  hands."  Again  the  cynical  smile  of  Annie 
Squires,  twenty-two. 

37 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Your  own  hands — what  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"I  might  as  well  tell  you.  I've  been  writing  to  him 
in  your  name !  I've  sent  him  a  picture  of  you — I  got 
it  in  the  bureau  drawer.  And  he's  crazy  over  you !" 

Mary  Warren  looked  at  her  with  wrath,  humiliation 
and  offended  dignity  showing  in  her  reddened  cheeks. 

"You  had  the  audacity  to  do  that,  Annie!  How 
dared  you?  How  could  you?" 

"Well,  I  was  afraid  of  the  lake  for  you,  and  I  knew 
that  something  had  to  be  done,  and  you  wouldn't  do 
it.  I've  got  quite  a  batch  of  letters  from  him.  He's 
got  three  hundred  and  twenty  acres  of  land,  eight 
cows,  a  horse  and  a  mule.  He  has  a  house  which 
is  all  right  except  it  lacks  the  loving  care  of  a  woman ! 
Well,  stack  that  up  against  this  room.  And  we  can't 
even  keep  this  for  very  long. 

"Listen,  Mary,"  she  said,  coming  over  and  putting 
both  her  broken  hands  on  her  friend's  shoulders. 
"God  knows,  if  I  could  keep  us  both  going  I  would, 
but  I  don't  make  money  enough  for  myself,  hardly, 
let  alone  you.  You  don't  belong  where  you've  been — • 
you  wouldn't,  even  if  you  was  well  and  fit,  which  you 
ain't.  Mollie,  Mollie,  my  dear,  what  is  there  ahead 
for  you?  We  got  to  do  some  thinking.  It's  up  to  us 
right  now.  You're  too  good  for  the  lake  or  the  poor 
farm — or — why,  you  belong  in  a  home.  Keep  house  ? 
I  wish't  I  knew  as  much  as  you  do  about  that." 

"I'll  tell  you,"  she  resumed  suddenly.  "I'll  tell  you 
what  let's  do !  A  stenographer  down  at  our  office  does 
ail  these  letters  for  me — she's  a  bear,  come  to  cor- 

38 


RICH  MAN— POOR  MAN 

respondence  like  that.  Now,  I'll  have  her  get  out  a 
letter  from  you  to  him  that  will  sort  of  bring  this 
thing  to  a  head  one  way  or  the  other.  We'll  say  that 
you  can't  think  of  going  out  there  to  marry  a  man 
sight-unseen— 

"No,"  said  Mary  Warren.  "The  lake,  first."  She 
was  wringing  her  hands,  her  cheeks  hot. 

"But  now,  as  a  housekeeper—  '  After  a  long  and 
perturbed  silence  Annie  spoke  again.  "That's  the  real 
live  idea,  Sis!  That's  the  dope!  You  might  think 
of  going  out  there  as  a  housekeeper,  just  to  see  how 
things  looked — just  so  that  you  could  look  things  over, 
couldn't  you?  You  wouldn't  marry  any  man  in  a 
hurry.  You  could  say  you'd  only  do  your  best  as  a 
sincere,  honest  woman — why,  I  have  to  tell  that  ste 
nographer  what  to  write,  all  the  time.  She's  sloppy." 

"But  look  at  me,  Annie — I  wouldn't  be  worth  any 
thing  as  a  housekeeper."  Mary  Warren  was  arguing! 
"As  to  marrying  that  way " 

— "Letter'll  say  you're  not  asking  any  pay  at  all. 
You  don't  promise  anything.  You  don't  ask  him  to 
promise  anything.  You  don't  want  any  wages.  You 
don't  let  him  pay  your  railroad  fare  out — not  at  all ! 
You  ain't  taking  any  chances  nor  asking  him  to  take 
any  chances, — unless  she  falls  in  love  with  you  for 
fair.  Which  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  he  did.  You're  a 
sweet  girl,  Mollie.  Put  fifteen  pounds  on  you,  and 
you'd  be  a  honey.  You  are  anyway.  Men  always  look 
at  you — it's  your  figure,  part,  maybe.  And  you're  so 
good — and  you're  a  lady,  Sis.  And  if  I— 

39 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Tell  him,"  said  Mary  Warren  suddenly,  pulling 
herself  together  with  the  extremes!  effort  of  will  and 
in  the  suddenest  and  sharpest  decision  she  had  ever 
known  in  all  her  life,  "tell  him  I'm  square!  Tell  him 
I'll  be  honest  all  the  time — all  the  time !" 

"As  though  you  could  be  anything  else,  you  poor 
dear!"  said  Annie  Squires,  coming  over  and  throw 
ing  a  strong  arm  about  Mary  Warren's  neck,  as 
though  they  both  had  done  nothing  but  agree  about 
this  after  a  dozen  conversations.  And  then  she  wept, 
for  she  knew  what  Mary  Warren's  surrender  had  cost. 
"And  game !  Game  and  square  both,  you  sweet  thing," 
sobbed  Annie  Squires. 

"Give  me  fifteen  pounds  on  you,"  she  wept,  dabbing 
at  her  own  eyes,  "and  I  wouldn't  risk  Charlie  near 
you, — not  a  minute!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

CHIVALROUS  J  AN J  OF  ABUNDANT  MEANS 

AROUND  the  Two  Forks  Valley  the  snow  still 
lay  white  and  clean  upon  the  peaks,  but  the 
feet  of  the  mountains  were  bathed  in  a  rising 
flood  of  green.  On  the  bottom  lands  the  grasses  be 
gan  to  start,  the  willows  renewed  their  leafery.  On 
the  pools  of  the  limpid  stream  the  trout  left  wrinkles 
and  circles  at  midday  now,  as  they  rose  to  feed  upon 
the  insects  swarming  in  the  warmth  of  the  oncoming 
sun. 

On  this  particular  morning  Wid  Gardner  turned 
down  the  practically  untrod  lane  along  Sim's  wire 
fence.  Now  and  again  he  glanced  at  something  which 
he  held  in  his  hand. 

When  he  entered  Sim  Gage's  gate,  the  ancient  mule, 
his  head  out  of  the  stable  window,  welcomed  him, 
braying  his  discontent.  Here  lay  the  ragged  wood 
pile,  showing  the  ax  work  of  a  winter.  At  the  edge 
of  a  gnawed  hay  stack  stood  the  remnant  of  Sim's 
scant  cattle  herd,  not  half  of  which  had  "wintered 
through." 

No  smoke  was  rising  from  Sim  Gage's  chimney. 
"Feller's  hopeless,  that's  what,"  complained  Wid 
Gardner  to  himself.  "It  gravels  me  plenty." 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

A  muffled  voice  answered  his  knock,  and  he  pushed 
open  the  door.  Sim  Gage  was  still  in  bed,  and  his  bed 
was  still  on  the  floor. 

"Come  in,"  said  he,  thrusting  a  frowsy  head  out 
from  under  his  blankets.  He  used  practically  the  same 
amount  of  covering  about  him  in  winter  and  summer ; 
and  now,  as  usual,  he  had  retired  practically  without 
removing  his  daily  clothing.  His  face,  stubbled  and 
unshaven,  swollen  with  sleep  and  surmounted  by  a 
tangled  fringe  of  hair,  might  not  by  any  flight  of 
imagination  have  been  called  admirable  or  inviting, 
as  he  now  looked  out  to  greet  his  caller. 

"Oh,  dang  it!  Git  up,  Sim,"  said  Wid,  irritated 
beyond  expression.  "It's  after  ten  o'clock." 

His  words  cut  through  the  somewhat  pachyderma 
tous  sensibilities  of  Sim  Gage,  who  frowned  a  trifle 
as,  after  a  due  pause,  he  crawled  out  and  sat  down 
and  reached  for  his  broken  boots. 

"Well,  I  dunno  as  it's  anybody's  damn  business 
whether  I  git  up  a-tall  or  not,  except  my  own,"  said 
he.  "I'll  git  up  when  I  please,  and  not  afore." 

"Well,  you  might  git  up  this  morning,  anyhow," 
said  Wid. 

"Why?" 

"I  got  a  letter  for  you." 

"Look-a-here,"  said  Sim  Gage,  with  sudden  precise- 
ness.  "What  you  been  doing?  Letter?  What  let 
ter?  And  how  come  you  by  my  letters?" 

"Well,  I  been  talking  with  Mis'  Davidson — she  run 
the  whole  correspondence,  Sim.  We — now — we  al- 

42 


CHIVALROUS 

lowed  we'd  ought  to  take  care  of  it  fer  you.  And  we 
done  so,  that's  all." 

"Huh!"  said  Sim  Gage.     "Fine  business,  ain't  it?" 

"Well,  she's  a-coming  on  out,"  said  Wid  Gardner, 
suddenly  and  comprehensively. 

"What's  that?    Who's  a-coming  on  out?" 

The  face  of  Sim  Gage  went  pale  even  under  the  cold 
water  to  which  at  the  moment  he  was  treating  his 
leathery  skin  in  the  basin  on  top  the  stove. 

"Sim,"  said  Wid  Gardner,  "it  was  understood  that 
this  thing  was  to  run  in  your  name.  Now,  Mis'  David 
son — when  it  comes  to  fixing  up  a  love  correspond 
ence,  she's  the  ace!  It  all  ain't  my  fault  a-tall,  Sim. 
We  advertised — and  we  got  a  answer,  and  we  follered 
it  up.  And  this  here  letter  is  the  r^-sult.  I  allowed 
we'd  ought  to  tell  you  too,  by  now." 

"What  you  been  doing — fooling  with  me,  you  two?" 
demanded  Sim.  "That  whole  thing  was  a  joke." 

"It's  one  hell  of  a  fine  joke  now,"  rejoined  Wid 
Gardner.  "She's  a-coming  on  out.  Sim,  it's  up  to 
you.  /  ain't  been  advertising  fer  no  wife.  This  here 
letter  is  yours." 

"That's  a  fine  thing  you  done,  ain't  it?"  said  Sim 
Gage,  turning  on  to  his  neighbor.  "When  you  find 
the  ford's  too  deep  to  git  acrost,  you  begin  to  holler 
fer  help." 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there.  That  ain't  the 
worst — I've  got  her  picture  here,  and  her  letters  too. 
She's  been  plumb  honest  all  along.  She  says  she's 
pretty  much  broke,  and  not  too  well.  She  says  when 

43 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

she  sees  you  she  hopes  you  won't  think  she's  deceived 
you.  She  says  she  knows  you're  everything  you  said 
you  was — a  gentle  and  chiz/a/erous  ranchman  of  the 
West,  sure  to  be  kind  to  a  woman.  She's  scared — 
she's  that  honest.  But  she's  a-coming.  She's  going 
to  try  housekeeping  though — no  more'n  that.  Rest's 
all  up  to  you,  not  her.  She  balked  from  the  jump  on 
all  marrying  talk." 

"Mis'  Davidson  ought  to  take  care  of  this  thing," 
said  Sim  Gage,  his  features  now  working,  as  usual,  in 
his  perplexity. 

"Mis'  Davidson  is  due  to  pull  her  freight.  She's 
going  down  on  her  own  homestead.  I'm  some  scared 
too,  Sim.  You  don't  really  know  how  you  been  mak 
ing  love  to  this  woman.  I  didn't  know  Mis'  Davidson 
had  it  in  her.  You  got  to  come  through  now,  Sim." 

"Who  says  I  got  to  come  through?" 

"You  got  to  go  to  town  to-morrow." 

"So  you're  a-going  to  make  me  go  in  to  town  to 
morrow  and  marry  a  woman  I  never  seen,  whether 
I  want  to  or  not?" 

"No,  it  ain't  right  up  to  that — you  needn't  think 
she's  coming  out  here  to  hunt  up  a  preacher  and  git 
married  to  you  right  away.  Not  a-tall,  Mr.  Gage, 
not  none  a-tall!  She  never  onct  said  she'd  do  any 
more'n  come  out  here  and  keep  house  fer  you  one 
season — that's  all.  Said  she  wouldn't  deceive  you. 
God  knows  how  you  can  keep  from  deceiving  her. 
Look  at  this  place.  And  you  got  to  bring  her  here — 
to-morrow.  She'll  be  at  Two  Forks  station  to-mor- 

44 


CHIVALROUS 

row  morning  at  eight-thirty,  on  the  Park  train.  This 
here  thing  is  up  to  you  right  now.  You  made  such  a 
holler  about  needing  a  woman  to  make  things  human 
fer  you.  Well,  here  you  are.  There's  the  cards — 
play  'em  the  way  they  lay.  You  be  human  now  if  you 
can.  You  got  the  chance." 

"I  ain't  got  no  wagon,  Wid,"  said  Sim,  weakly. 
"You  know  I  ain't  got  none." 

"You'll  have  to  take  my  buckboard." 

"And  you  know  I  ain't  got  no  team — my  horse,  he 
ain't  right  strong — didn't  winter  none  too  well — and 
I  couldn't  go  there  with  just  one  mule,  now  could  I  ?" 

"You'll  have  to  take  my  team  of  broncs,"  said  Wid. 
"You  can  start  out  from  my  place." 

"But  one  thing,  Sim  Gage,"  he  continued,  "when 
you've  started,  I'm  a-coming  down  here  with  a  pitch 
fork  and  I'm  a-going  to  clean  out  this  place!  It  ain't 
human.  We'll  do  the  best  we  can.  Since  there  ain't 
a-going  to  be  no  marrying  right  off,  you'll  have  to 
sleep  in  your  wall  tent  outside.  You'll  have  to  git 
some  wood  cut  up.  You'll  have  to  git  a  clean  bed 
here  in  the  house, — this  bed  of  yours  is  going  to  be 
burned  out  in  the  yard.  You'll  have  to  git  new  blank 
ets  when  you  go  to  town." 

"As  fer  your  clothes" — he  turned  a  contemptuous 
glance  upon  Sim  as  he  stood — "they  ain't  hardly  fit 
fer  a  bridegroom !  Go  to  the  Golden  Eagle,  and  git 
yourself  a  full  outfit,  top  to  bottom — new  shirts,  new 
underclothes,  new  pants,  new  hat,  new  socks,  new 
gloves,  new  everything.  This  girl  can't  come  out  here 

45 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

and  see  you  the  way  you  are,  and  this  place  the  way 
it's  been.  She'd  start  something." 

"Well,  if  you  leave  it  to  me,"  said  Sim  Gage  mildly, 
"all  this  here  seems  kind  of  sudden.  You  come  in 
afore  I'm  up,  and  tell  me  to  burn  my  bed,  and  sleep 
in  a  tent,  and  borry  a  wagon  and  team  and  go  to  town 
fer  to  marry  a  girl  I  never  seen.  That  don't  look 
reason'ble  to  me,  especial  since  I  ain't  had  no  hand 
in  it." 

"It's  up  to  you  now." 

"How  do  I  know  whether  I  want  that  girl  or  not? 
I  ain't  read  no  letters — nor  wrote  none.  I  ain't  seen 
no  picture  of  her " 

"Well,"  said  Wid,  and  reached  a  hand  into  his 
breast  pocket,  "here  she  is." 

In  a  feeling  more  akin  to  awe  than  anything  else, 
Sim  Gage  bent  over,  looking  down  at  the  clear  oval 
face,  the  piled  dark  hair,  the  tender  contour  of  cheek 
and  chin  of  Mary  Warren,  as  beautiful  a  young  lady 
as  any  man  is  apt  ever  to  see;  so  beautiful  that  this 
man's  inexperienced  heart  stopped  in  his  bosom.  This 
picture  once  had  been  buttoned  in  the  tunic  of  an  avi 
ator  who  flew  for  the  three  flags;  her  brother;  and 
before  his  death  and  its  return  more  than  one  of  Dan 
Warren's  army  friends  had  looked  at  it  reverently  as 
Sim  Gage  did  now. 

"Wears  glasses,  don't  she,"  said  he,  to  conceal  his 
confusion.  "Reckon  she's  a  school  ma'am?" 

"Ask  me,  and  I'll  say  she's  a  lady.  She  says  she's 
a  working  girl.  Says  she's  had  trouble.  Says  she's 

46 


CHIVALROUS 

up  against  it  now.     Says  she  ain't  well,   and  ain't 
happy,  and — well,  here  she  is." 

"My  good  God  A'mighty !"  said  Sim  Gage,  his  voice 
awed  as  he  looked  at  the  high-bred,  clear- featured 
face  of  Mary  Warren. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

RIVAL  CONSCIENCES 

THE  transcontinental  train  from  the  East  rarely 
made  its  great  climb  up  the  Two  Forks  divide 
on  time,  and  to-day  it  was  more  than  usually 
late.  A  solitary  figure  long  since  had  begun  to  pace 
the  station  platform,  looking  anxiously  up  and  down 
the  track. 

It  was  Sim  Gage ;  and  this  was  the  first  time  he  ever 
had  come  to  meet  a  train  at  Two  Forks. 

Sim  Gage,  but  not  the  same.  He  now  was  in  stiff, 
ill-fitting  and  exclaimingly  new  clothing.  A  new  dark 
hat  oppressed  his  perspiring  brow,  new  and  pointed 
shoes  agonized  his  feet,  a  new  white  collar  and  a  tie 
tortured  his  neck.  He  had  been  owner  of  these  things 
no  longer  than  overnight.  He  did  not  feel  acquainted 
with  himself. 

He  was  to  meet  a  woman!  Her  picture  was  in  his 
pocket,  in  his  brain,  in  his  blood.  A  vast  shyness,  com 
ing  to  consternation,  seized  him.  He  felt  a  sense  of 
personal  guilt ;  and  yet  a  feeling  of  indignity  and  injus 
tice  claimed  him.  But  all  this  and  all  his  sullen  anger 
was  wiped  out  in  this  great  shyness  of  a  man  not  used 
to  facing  women.  Sim  Gage  was  product  of  a  woman- 

48 


RIVAL  CONSCIEXCES 

less  land.  This  was  the  closest  his  orbit  ever  had 
come  to  that  of  the  great  mystery.  And  he  had  been 
alone  so  long.  A  sudden  surging  longing  came  to  his 
heart.  Sim  Gage  was  shy  always,  and  he  was  fright 
ened  now;  but  now  he  felt  a  longing — a  longing  to 
be  human. 

Sim  Gage  never  in  all  his  life  had  seen  a  young 
woman  looking  back  at  him  over  his  shoulder.  And 
now  there  came  accession  of  all  his  ancient  dread, 
joined  with  this  growing  sense  of  guilt.  A  few  pas 
sengers  from  the  resort  hotel  back  in  the  town  began 
*o  appear,  lolling  at  the  ticket  window  or  engaged  at 
the  baggage  room.  Sim  Gage  found  a  certain  com 
fort  in  the  presence  of  other  human  beings.  All  the 
time  he  gazed  furtively  down  the  railway  tracks. 

A  long-drawn  scream  of  the  laboring  engines  told 
of  the  approaching  train  at  last.  Horses  and  men 
pricked  up  their  ears.  The  blood  of  Sim  Gage's  heart 
seemed  to  go  to  his  brain.  He  was  seized  with  a  panic, 
but,  fascinated  by  some  agency  he  could  not  resist,  he 
stood  uncertainly  until  the  train  came  in.  He  began 
to  tremble  in  the  unadulterated  agony  of  a  shy  man 
about  to  meet  the  woman  to  whom  he  has  made  love 
only  in  his  heart. 

Sim  Gage's  team  of  young  and  wild  horses  across 
the  street  began  to  plunge  now,  and  to  entangle  them 
selves  dangerously,  but  he  did  not  cross  the  street  to 
care  for  them.  She  was  coming!  The  woman  from 
the  States  was  on  this  very  train.  In  two  minutes 

But  the  crowd  thinned  and  dissipated  at  length,  and 

49 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

Sim  Gage  had  not  found  her  after  all.  He  felt  sud 
den  relief  that  she  had  not  come,  mingled  with  resent 
ment  that  he  had  been  made  foolish.  She  was  not 
there — she  had  not  come! 

But  his  gaze,  passing  from  one  to  another  of  the 
early  tourists,  rested  at  last  upon  a  solitary  figure 
which  stood  close  to  the  burly  train  conductor  near 
the  station  door.  The  conductor  held  the  young  wo 
man's  arm  reassuringly,  as  they  both  looked  question- 
ingly  from  side  to  side.  She  was  in  dark  clothing. 
A  dark  veil  was  across  her  face.  As  she  pushed  it 
back  he  saw  her  eyes  protected  by  heavy  black  lenses. 

Sim  Gage  hesitated.  The  conductor  spoke  to  him 
so  loudly  that  he  jumped. 

"Say,  are  you  Mr.  Gage?" 

"That's  me,"  said  Sim.  "I'm  Mr.  Gage."  He 
could  not  recall  that  ever  in  his  life  he  had  been  so 
accosted  before;  he  had  never  thought  of  himself  as 
being  Mr.  Gage,  only  Sim  Gage. 

One  redeeming  quality  he  had — a  pleasant  speaking 
voice.  A  sudden  turn  of  the  head  of  the  young  woman 
seemed  to  recognize  this.  She  reached  out,  groping 
for  the  arm  of  the  conductor.  Consternation  urged 
her  also  to  seek  protection.  This  was  the  man! 

"Lady  for  you,  Mr.  Gage,"  said  the  conductor. 
"This  young  woman  caught  a  cinder  down  the  road. 
Better  see  a  doctor  soon  as  you  can — bad  eye.  She 
said  she  was  to  meet  you  here." 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Sim  Gage  suddenly  to  him. 
"It's  all  right.  You  can  go  if  you  want  to." 

50 


RIVAL  CONSCIENCES 

He  saw  that  the  young  woman  was  looking  at  him, 
but  she  seemed  to  make  no  sign  of  recognition. 

"I'm  Mr.  Gage,  ma'am,"  said  he,  stepping  up.  "I'm 
sorry  you  got  a  cinder  in  your  eye.  We'll  go  up  and 
see  the  doctor.  Why,  I  had  a  cinder  onct  in  my  eye, 
time  I  was  going  down  to  Arizony,  and  it  like  to  of 
ruined  me.  I  couldn't  see  nothing  for  nearly  four 
days." 

He  was  lying  now,  rather  fluently  and  beautifully. 
He  had  never  been  in  Arizona,  and  so  little  did  he 
know  of  railway  travel  that  he  had  not  noted  that 
this  young  woman  came  not  from  a  sleeping  car,  but 
from  one  of  the  day  coaches.  The  dust  upon  her  gar 
ments  seemed  to  him  there  naturally  enough. 

She  did  not  answer,  stood  so  much  aloof  from  him 
that  a  sudden  sense  of  inferiority  possessed  him.  He 
could  not  see  that  her  throat  was  fluttering,  did  not 
know  that  tears  were  coming  from  back  of  the  heavy 
glasses.  He  could  not  tell  that  Mary  Warren  had  ap 
praised  him  even  now,  blind  though  she  was;  that  she 
herself  suffered  by  reason  of  that  wrong  appraisal. 

The  throng  thinned,  the  tumult  and  shouting  of 
the  hotel  men  died  away.  Sim  Gage  did  not  know 
what  to  do.  A  woman  seemed  to  mean  a  sudden  and 
strangely  overwhelming  accession  of  problems.  What 
should  he  do  ?  Where  would  he  put  her  ?  What  ought 
he  to  say? 

"If  you'll  excuse  me,"  he  ventured  at  last,  "I'll  go 
acrosst  and  git  my  team.  They're  all  tangled  up,  like 
you  see." 

51 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

She  spoke,  her  voice  agitated;  reached  out  a  hand. 
"I— I  can't  see  at  all,  sir !" 

"That's  too  bad,  ma'am,"  said  Sim  Gage,  "but  don't 
you  worry  none  at  all.  You  set  right  down  here  on  the 
aidge  of  the  side  walk,  till  I  git  the  horses  fixed. 
They're  scared  of  the  cars.  Is  this  your  satchel, 
ma'am?" 

"Yes— that's  mine." 

"You  got  any  trunk  for  me  to  git?"  he  asked, 
turning  back,  suddenly  and  by  miracle,  recalling  that 
people  who  traveled  usually  had  trunks. 

He  could  not  see  the  flush  of  her  cheek  as  she  re 
plied,  "No,  I  didn't  bring  one.  I  thought — what  I 
had  would  do."  He  could  not  know  that  nearly  all  her 
worldly  store  was  here  in  this  battered  cheap  valise. 

"You  ain't  a-going  to  leave  us  so  soon  like  that,  are 
you?" 

She  turned  to  him  wistfully,  a  swift  light  upon  her 
face.  He  had  said,  "leave  us" — not  "leave  me."  And 
his  voice  was  gentle.  Surely  he  was  the  kind-hearted 
and  chivalrous  rancher  of  his  own  simple  letters.  She 
began  to  feel  a  woman's  sense  of  superiority.  On  the 
defensive,  she  replied :  "I  don't  know  yet.  Suppose 
we — suppose " 

"Suppose  that  we  wait  awhile,  eh  ?"  said  Sim  Gage, 
himself  wistful. 

"Why— yes." 

"All  right,  ma'am.  We'll  do  anything  you  like. 
You  don't  need  no  trunk  full  of  things  out  here — I 
hope  you'll  git  along  somehow." 

52 


RIVAL,  CONSCIENCES 

Knowing  that  he  ought  to  assist  her,  he  put  out  a 
hand  to  touch  her  arm,  withdrew  it  as  though  he  had 
been  stung,  and  then  hastily  stood  as  he  felt  her  hand 
rest  upon  his  arm.  He  led  her  slowly  to  the  edge 
of  the  platform.  Then  she  heard  his  footsteps  pass 
ing,  heard  the  voices  of  two  men — for  now  a  bystander 
had  gone  across  to  do  something  for  the  plunging 
horses,  one  of  which  had  thrown  itself  under  the 
buckboard  tongue.  She  heard  the  two  men  as  they 
worked  on.  "Git  up!"  said  one  voice.  "Git  around 
there!"  Then  came  certain  oaths  on  the  part  of  both 
men,  and  conversation  whose  import  she  did  not  know. 

Their  voices  were  as  though  heard  in  a  dream. 
There  suddenly  came  an  overwhelming  sense  of  guilt 
to  Mary  Warren.  She  had  been  unfair  to  this  man! 
He  was  a  trifle  crude,  yes ;  but  kind,  gentle,  unpresum- 
ing.  She  felt  safer  and  safer — guilty  and  more  guilty. 
How  could  she  ever  explain  it  all  to  him? 

"I  reckon  they're  all  right  now,"  said  Sim  Gage, 
after  a  considerable  battle  with  his  team.  "Nothing 
busted  much.  Git  up  on  the  seat,  won't  you,  Bill,  and 
drive  acrosst — I  got  to  help  that  lady  git  in." 

"Who  is  she?"  demanded  the  other,  who  had  not 
failed  to  note  the  waiting  figure. 

"It's  none  of  your  damn  business,"  said  Sim  Gage. 
"That  is,  it's  my  housekeeper — she's  going  to  cook 
for  the  hay  hands." 

"With  a  two  months'  start?"  grinned  the  other. 

"Drive  on  acrosst  now,"  said  Sim  Gage,  in  grim 
reply,  which  closed  the  other's  mouth  at  once. 

53 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER, 

Mary  Warren  heard  the  crunch  of  wheels,  heard  the 
thump  of  her  valise  as  Sim  Gage  caught  it  up  and 
threw  it  into  the  back  of  the  buckboard.  Then  he 
spoke  again.  She  felt  him  standing  close  at  hand. 
Once  more,  trembling  as  in  an  ague,  she  placed  a 
hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Now,  when  I  tell  you,"  he  said  gently,  "why,  you 
put  your  foot  up  on  the  hub  of  the  wheel  here,  and 
grab  the  iron  on  the  side,  and  climb  in  quick — these 
horses  is  sort  of  uneasy." 

"I  can't  see  the  wheel,"  said  Mary  Warren,  groping. 

She  felt  his  hand  steadying  her — felt  the  rim  of 
the  wheel  under  her  hand,  felt  him  gently  if  clum 
sily  try  to  help  her  up.  Her  foot  missed  the  hub  of 
the  wheel,  the  horses  started,  and  she  almost  fell — 
would  have  done  so  had  not  he  caught  her  in  his  arms. 
It  was  almost  the  first  time  in  his  life,  perhaps  the 
only  time,  that  he  had  felt  the  full  weight  of  a  woman 
in  his  arms.  She  disengaged  herself,  apologized  for 
her  clumsiness. 

"You  didn't  hurt  yourself,  any?"  said  he  anxiously. 

"No,"  she  said.  "But  I'm  blind— I'm  blind!  Oh, 
don't  you  know  ?" 

He  said  nothing.  How  could  she  know  that  her 
words  brought  to  Sim  Gage  not  regret,  but — relief! 

He  steadied  her  foot  so  that  it  might  find  the  hub 
of  the  wheel,  steadied  her  arm,  cared  for  her  as  she 
clambered  into  the  seat. 

"All  right,"  she  heard  him  say,  not  to  her;  and  th^n 
he  replaced  the  other  man  on  the  high  seat.  The 

54 


RIVAL  CONSCIENCES 

horses  plunged  forward.  She  felt  herself  helpless, 
alone,  swept  away.  And  she  was  blind. 

All  the  way  across  the  Middle  West,  across  the  great 
plains,  Mary  Warren  had  been  able  to  see  somewhat. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  knitting — hour  after  hour  of  it,  in 
spite  of  all,  done  in  sheer  self-defense.  But  at  the 
western  edge  of  the  great  Plains,  it  had  come — what 
she  had  dreaded.  Both  eyes  were  gone!  Since  then 
she  had  not  seen  at  all,  and  having  in  mind  her  long 
warning,  accepted  her  blindness  as  a  permanent  thing. 

She  passed  now  through  a  world  of  blackness.  She 
could  not  see  the  man  who  had  written  those  letters 
to  her.  She  could  catch  only  the  wine  of  a  high,  clean 
air,  the  breath  of  pine  trees,  the  feeling  of  space,  ap 
preciable  even  by  the  blind. 

Suddenly  she  began  to  sob.  Sim  Gage  by  now  had 
somewhat  quieted  his  wild  team,  and  he  looked  at 
her,  his  face  puckered  into  a  perturbed  frown. 

"Now,  now,"  he  said,  "don't  you  take  on,  little 
woman."  He  was  abashed  at  his  daring,  but  himself 
felt  almost  like  tears,  as  things  now  were.  "It'll  all 
come  right.  Don't  you  worry  none.  Don't  be  scared 
of  these  horses  a-tall,  ma'am;  I  can  handle  'em  all 
right.  We  got  to  see  that  doctor." 

But  when  presently  they  had  driven  the  half  mile 
to  the  village,  he  learned  that  the  doctor  was  not  in 
town. 

"We  can't  do  anything,"  said  she.  "Drive  on — 
we'll  go.  I  don't  think  the  doctor  could  help  me  very 
much." 

55 


THE  SACEBRUSHER 

All  the  time  she  knew  she  had  in  part  been  lying 
to  him.  It  was  not  merely  a  cinder  in  her  eye — this 
was  a  helpless  blindness,  a  permanent  thing.  The 
retina  of  each  eye  now  was  ruined,  gone.  So  she 
had  been  warned.  Again  she  reached  out  her  hand 
in  spite  of  all  to  touch  his  arm.  He  remained  silent. 
She  cruelly  misunderstood  him. 

At  last  she  turned  fully  towards  him,  and  spoke 
suddenly.  "Listen!"  said  she.  "I  believe  you're  a 
good  man.  I'll  not  deceive  you." 

"God  knows  I  ain't  no  good  man,"  said  Sim  Gage 
suddenly,  "and  God  knows  I'm  sorry  I  deceived  you 
like  I  have.  But  I'll  ..dice  care  of  you  until  you  can 
do  something  better,  and  until  you  want  to  go  back 
home." 

"Home?"  she  said.  "I  haven't  any  home.  I  tell 
you  I've  deceived  you.  I'm  sorry — oh,  it's  all  so  ter 
rible." 

"It  shore  is,"  said  Sim  Gage.  "I  didn't  really  write 
them  letters — but  it's  my  fault  you're  here.  You  can 
blame  me  fer  everything.  Why,  almost  I  was  a  no 
tion  never  to  come  near  this  here  place  this  morning. 
I  felt  guilty,  like  I'd  shot  somebody — I  didn't  know. 
I  feel  that  way  now." 

'You're  all  your  letters  said  you  were,"  said  Mary 
Warren,  weeping  now.  "Any  woman  who  would  de 
ceive  such  a  man " 

"You  ain't  deceived  me  none,"  said  Sim  Gage. 
"But  it's  wrong  of  me  to  fool  a  woman  such  as  you, 
and  I'm  sorry.  Only,  just  don't  you  git  scared  too 

56 


RIVAL  CONSCIENCES 

much.  I'm  a-going  to  take  care  of  you  the  best  I 
know  how." 

"But  it  wasn't  true !"  she  broke  out — "what  the  con 
ductor  said!  It  isn't  just  a  cinder  in  my  eye — it's 
worse.  My  eyes  have  been  getting  bad  right  along. 
I  couldn't  see  anything  to-day.  You  didn't  know. 
I  lost  my  place.  I  have  no  relatives — there  wasn't 
any  place  in  the  world  for  me.  I  was  afraid  I  was 
going  blind — and  yesterday  I  did  go  blind.  I'll  never 
see  again.  And  you're  kind  to  me.  I  wish — I  wish 
— why,  what  shall  I  do?" 

"Ma'am,"  said  Sim  Gage,  "I  didn't  know,  and  you 
didn't  know.  Can  you  ever  forgive  me  fer  what 
I've  done  to  you  ?" 

"Forgive  you — what  do  you  mean  ?"  she  said.  "Oh, 
my  God,  what  shall  I  do!" 

Sim  Gage's  face  was  frowning  more  than  ever. 

"Now,  you  mustn't  take  on,  ma'am,"  said  he.  "I'm 
sorry  as  I  can  be  fer  you,  but  I  got  to  drive  these 
broncs.  But  fer  as  I'm  concerned — it  ain't  just  what 
I  want  to  say,  neither — I  can't  make  it  right  plain 
to  you,  ma'am.  It  ain't  right  fer  me  to  say  I'm  al 
most  glad  you  can't  see — but  somehow,  that's  right 
the  way  I  do  feel!  It's  mercifuler  to  you  that  way, 
ma'am." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Mary  Warren.  She 
caught  emotion  in  this  man's  voice.  "Whatever  can 
you  mean?" 

"Well,"  said  Sim  Gage,  "take  me  like  I  am,  setting 
right  here,  I  ain't  fitten  to  be  setting  here.  But  \ 

57 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

don't  want  you  to  see.  I  got  that  advantage  of  you, 
ma'am.  I  can  see  you,  ma'am";  and  he  undertook  a 
laugh  which  made  a  wretched  failure. 

"How  far  is  it  to  your — our — the  place  where  we're 
going?"  she  asked  after  a  time. 

"About  twenty-three  mile,  ma'am,"  he  answered 
cheerfully.  "Road's  pretty  fair  now.  I  wish't  you 
could  see  how  pretty  the  hills  is — they're  gitting  green 
now  some." 

"And  the  sky  is  blue?"  Her  eyes  turned  up,  sen 
sible  of  no  more  than  a  feeling  that  light  was  some 
where. 

"Right  blue,  ma'am,  with  leetle  white  clouds,  not 
very  big.  I  wish't  you  could  see  our  sky^." 

"And  trees?" 

"Dark  green,  ma'am — pine  trees  always  is." 

She  heard  the  rumble  of  the  wheels  on  planks, 
caught  the  sound  of  rushing  waters. 

"This  is  the  bridge  over  the  West  Fork,  ma'am," 
said  her  companion.  "It's  right  pretty  here — the 
water  runs  over  the  rocks  like." 

"And  what  is  the  country  like  on  ahead,  where — 
where  we're  going?" 

"It's   in   a  valley   like,    ma'am,"    said    Sim   Gage. 

"There's  mountains  on  each  side — they  come  closest 
down  to  the  other  fork,  near  in  where  I  live.  That 
fork's  just  as  clean  as  glass,  ma'am — you  can  see  right 

down  into  it,  twenty  feet "  Then  suddenly  he 

caught  himself.  "That  is,  I  wish't  you  could.  Plenty 

58 


RIVAL  CONSCIENCES 

of  fish  in  it — trout  and  grayling — I'll  catch  you  all 
you  want,  ma'am.  They're  fine  to  eat." 

"And  are  there  things  about  the  place — chickens 
or  something?" 

"There's  calves,  ma'am,"  said  Sim  Gage.  "Not 
many.  I  ain't  got  no  hens,  but  I'll  git  some  if  you 
want  'em.  We'd  ought  to  have  some  eggs,  oughtn't 
we?  And  I  got  several  cattle — not  many  as  I'd  like, 
but  some.  This  ain't  my  wagon.  These  ain't  my 
horses;  I  got  one  horse  and  a  mule." 

"What  sort  is  it — the  house?" 

Sim  Gage  spoke  now  like  a  man  and  a  gentleman. 

"I  ain't  got  no  house  fitten  to  call  one,  ma'am,"  said 
he,  "and  that's  the  truth.  I've  got  a  log  cabin  with 
one  room.  I've  slept  there  alone  fer  a  good  many 
years,  holding  down  my  land." 

"But,"  he  added  quickly,  "that's  a-going  to  be  your 
place.  Me — I'm  out  a  leetle  ways  off,  in  the  flat,  be 
yond  the  first  row  of  willers  between  the  house  and  the 
creek — I  always  sleep  in  a  tent  in  the  summer  time. 
I  allow  you'd  feel  safer  in  a  house." 

"I've  always  read  about  western  life,"  said  she 
slowly,  in  her  gentle  voice.  "If  only — I  wish " 

"So  do  I,  ma'am,"  said  Sim  Gage. 

But  neither  really  knew  what  was  the  wish  in  the 
other's  heart 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  HALT  AND  THE  BLIND 

THE  sweet  valley,  surrounded  by  its  mountains, 
was  now  a  sight  to  quicken  the  pulse  of  any 
heart  alive  to  beauty,  as  it  lay  in  its  long  vistas 
before  them;  but  neither  of  these  two  saw  the  moun 
tains  or  the  trees,  or  the  green  levels  that  lay  between. 
Long  silences  fell,  broken  only  by  the  crackling  clatter 
of  the  horses'  hoofs  on  the  hard  roadway. 

It  was  Mary  Warren  who  at  last  spoke,  after  a  deep 
breath,  as  though  summoning  her  resolution.  "You're 
an  honest  man,"  said  she.  "I  ought  to  be  honest  with 
you." 

"I  reckon  that's  so  enough,  ma'am,"  said  Sim  Gage. 
"But  I  just  told  you  I  ain't  been  honest  with  you.  I 
never  wrote  one  of  them  letters  that  you  got — it  was 
some  one  else." 

"But  you  came  to  meet  me — you're  here " 

"Yes,  but  I  didn't  write  them  letters.  That  was 
all  done  by  friends  of  mine." 

"That's  very  strange.  That's  just  the  reason  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  hadn't  been  honest — I  never 
wrote  the  letters  that  you  got!  It  was  my  room-mate, 
Annie  Squires." 

60 


THE  HALT  AND  THE  BLIND 

"So?  That's  funny,  ain't  it?  Some  folks  has  funny 
idees  of  jokes.  I  reckon  they  thought  this  was  a  joke. 
It  ain't." 

"Your  letters  seemed  like  you  seem  now,"  she  broke 
in.  "It  seems  to  me  you  mu&t  have  written  every 
word." 

"Ma'am "  said  Sim  Gage;  and  broke  down. 

"Yes,  sir?" 

"Them  is  the  finest  words  I  ever  heard  in  my  life! 
I  ain't  been  much.  If  I  could  only  live  up  to  them 
words,  now 

"Besides,"  he  went  on,  a  rising  happiness  in  his 
tones,  "seems  like  you  and  me  was  one  just  as  honest 
as  the  other,  and  both  meaning  fair.  That  makes 
me  feel  a  heap  easier.  If  it  does  you,  you're  wel 
come." 

Blind  as  she  was,  Mary  Warren  knew  now  the  gulf 
between  this  man's  life  and  hers.  But  his  words  were 
so  kind.  And  she  so  much  needed  a  friend. 

"You're  a  forgiving  man,  Mr.  Gage,"  said  she. 

"No,  I  ain't.  I'm  a  awful  man.  When  you  learn 
more  about  me  you'll  think  I'm  the  worst  man  you 
ever  seen." 

"We'll  have  to  wait,"  was  all  that  Mary  Warren 
could  think  to  say.  But  after  a  time  she  turned  her 
face  toward  him  once  more. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  she,  "I  think  you're  a  gentle 
man!" 

"Oh,  my  Lord!"  said  Sim  Gage,  his  eyes  going 
every  which  way.  "Oh,  my  good  Lord!" 

61 


THE  SACEBRUSHER 

"Well,  it's  true.  Look — you  haven't  said  a  word 
or  done  a  thing — you  haven't  touched  me — or  laughed 
— or — or  hinted — not  once.  That's  being  a  gentle 
man,  in  a  time  like  this.  This— this  is  a  very  hard 
place  for  a  woman." 

"It  ain't  so  easy  fer  a  man!  But  I  couldn't  have 
done  no  other  way,  could  I?" 

She  made  no  answer.  "Are  there  many  other  wo 
men  in  this  valley,  Mr.  Gage?"  she  asked  after  a- 
time.  "Who  are  they?  What  are  they  like?" 

"Five,  in  twenty-two  miles  between  my  place  and 
town,  ma'am,"  he  answered,  "when  they're  home.  The 
nearedest  one  to  us  is  about  couple  miles,  unless  you 
cut  through  the  fields." 

"Who  is  she?    What  is  she  like?" 

"That  is  Mis'  Davidson,  our  school  ma'am — 
She's  the  only  woman  I  seen  a'most  all  last  summer, 
unlessen  onct  in  a  while  a  woman  would  come  out 
with  some  fishing  party  in  a  automobile.  Most  of  them 
crosses  up  above  on  the  bridge  and  comes  down  the 
other  side  of  the  creek  from  us.  Seems  to  me  some 
times  women  has  always  been  just  acrosst  the  creek 
from  me,  ma'am.  I  don't  know  much  about  them. 
Now,  Wid — Wid  Gardner — he's  the  next  rancher  to 
me,  this  side — he  sometimes  has  folks  come  there  in 
the  fishing  season." 

"Your  log  house  is  all  painted  and  nice,  isn't  it?" 

"Painted.,  ma'am?  Lord,  no!  You  don't  paint  a 
log  house  none." 

62 


THE  HALT  AND  THE  BLIND 

"I  never  saw  one  in  my  life,"  said  she  contritely; 
then,  sighing.  "I  never  will,  now." 

"Do  men  come  to  your  place  very  much,  then?" 
she  asked  at  length. 

"Why,  Wid,  he  sometimes  comes  over." 

"And  who  is  Wid?" 

"Like  I  said,  he's  got  the  next  ranch  to  mine. 
He's  maybe  a  forwarder  sort  of  man  than  me." 

"Did  he  have  anything  to  do  with — that  advertise 
ment  ?" 

"How  can  you  guess  things  like  that?" 

"He  thought  you  were  all  alone  ?" 

"We  did  have  some  talk.  But  I  want  to  tell  you 
one  thing,  ma'am — if  I  had  ever  thought  onct  that 
we'd  a-brung  a  woman  like  you  here,  I'd  never  of 
been  part  nor  party  to  it.  I  guess  not!" 

"And  yet  you  can't  see  why  you're  a  gentleman!" 
said  she  again  slowly. 

"You  said  you'd  be  going  back  home  again  before 
long?"  It  was  the  first  thing  Sim  Gage  could  say. 

"I  haven't  any  home." 

"Nor  no  folks  neither?" 

"There's  not  a  soul  in  the  world  that  I  could  go 
back  to,  Mr.  Gage.  So  now,  I've  told  you  the  truth." 

"But  there  was  oncet,  maybe?"  he  said  shrewdly. 
"How  old  are  you  ?"  He  flushed  suddenly  at  this  ques 
tion,  which  he  asked  before  he  thought. 

"I'm  twenty-five." 

"You  don't  look  that  old.  Me,  I'm  thirty-seven. 
I'm  too  old  to  marry.  Now  I  never  will." 

63 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"How  do  you  know?"  she  said.  "What  do  you 
mean?"  As  she  spoke  she  felt  the  tears  come  again 
on  her  cheeks,  felt  her  hands  trembling. 

"Well,  ma'am,  I  know  mighty  well  I'll  never  marry 
now.  Of  course,  if  one  sort  of  woman  had  came  out 
here — big  and  strong  enough  to  be  a  housekeeper  and 
nothing  else,  and  all  that,  and  one  thing  with  another 
— I  won't  say  what  might  have  happened.  Strange 
things  has  happened  that  way — right  out  of  them 
damn  Hearts  Aflame  ads — right  around  along  in 
here,  in  this  here  valley,  too,  I  know.  Well,  of 
course,  a  man  can't  get  along  so  well,  ranching,  un 
less  he  has  a  wife " 

"Or  a  housekeeper  ?" 

"Why,  yes.  That's  what  we  advertised  fer.  I 
didn't  know  it." 

Mary  Warren  pondered  for  a  long  time. 

"Look  at  me,"  she  said  at  last.  "There's  no  place 
for  me  back  home,  and  none  here.  What  sort  of 
housekeeper  would  I  make — and  what  sort  of — of — 
wife?  I'm  disappointing  you;  and  you're  disappoint 
ing  me.  What  shall  we  both  do?" 

"Why,  how  do  you  mean?"  said  Sim  Gage,  won- 
deringly.  "Disapppoint  you?  Of  course  I  couldn't 
marry  a  woman  like  you !  You  don't  want  me  to  do 
that?  That  wouldn't  be  right." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that!  I  don't  know  what  I  did 
mean!" 

Some  sense  of  her  perturbation  must  have  come 
to  him.  "Now  don't  you  worry,  ma'am.  Don't  you 

64 


git  troubled  none  a-tall.  I'm  a-goin'  to  take  care  of 
you  myself  until  everything  gits  all  right." 

"I'm  a  thief!  I'm  a  beggar!"  was  all  she  could 
say. 

"The  same  here,  ma'am!  You've  got  nothing  on 
me,"  said  Sim  Gage.  "What  I  said  is,  we're  in  the 
same  boat,  and  we  got  to  go  the  best  way  we  can  till 
things  shapes  out.  It  ain't  very  much  I  got  to  offer 
you.  Us  sagebrushers  has  to  take  the  leavings." 

"You've  said  the  truth  for  me — the  very  truth.  I'm 
of  the  discard — I  can't  earn  my  living.  Leavings! 
And  I  wanted  to  earn  my  living." 

"You've  earned  it  now,  ma'am,"  said  Sim  Gage; 
and  perhaps  made  the  largest  speech  of  all  his  life. 

"Well,  anyways,  we're  going  to  come  to  my  land 
right  now,"  he  added  after  a  time.  "We've  passed 
the  school  house,  only  couple  mile  from  my  place.  On 
ahead  here  is  Wid  Gardner's  ranch,  on  the  left  hand 
side.  I  don't  reckon  he's  at  home.  I  told  you  the 
school  ma'am  had  maybe  went  off  to  her  homestead, 
didn't  I  ?  Maybe  Nels  Jensen,  he's  maybe  driving  her 
to  the  Big  Springs  station  down  below.  This  here 
is  Wrid  Gardner's  team  and  buckboard,  ma'am.  I 
ain't  got  around  to  fixing  mine  up  this  spring.  I've 
got  to  drive  back  after  a  while  and  take  these  things 
back  to  Wid." 

Her  situation  grew  more  tense.  They  were  com 
ing  now  to  the  end  of  the  journey — to  her  home — to 
his  home.  She  did  not  speak.  To  her  ears  the  sound 

65 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

of  the  horses'  feet  seemed  less,  as  though  they  were 
passing  on  a  road  not  so  much  used. 

"This  is  a  sort  of  alley,  like,  down  along  between 
the  willers  and  the  rail  fence,"  explained  Sim  Gage. 
"It's  about  half  a  mile  of  this.  Then  we  come  to  my 
gate." 

And  presently  they  did  come  to  his  gate,  where  the 
silver-edged  willows  came  close  on  the  one  side  and 
the  wide  hay  meadows  reached  out  on  the  other  to 
ward  the  curving  pathway  of  the  river.  He  pulled  up. 

"Could  you  hold  these  horses,  ma'am,  f  er  a  minute  ? 
I  got  to  open  the  gate." 

He  handed  her  the  reins,  it  never  occurring  to  him 
that  there  was  any  one  in  the  world  who  had  never 
driven  horses.  She  was  frightened,  but  resolved  to 
appear  brave  and  useful. 

Sim  Gage  began  to  untwist  the  short  club  which 
bound  the  wire  gate  shut.  He  pulled  it  back,  and 
clucked  to  the  horses,  seeing  that  she  did  not  start 
them. 

Mary  Warren  knew  nothing  of  horses.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  the  correct  thing  to  do  was  to  drop  the 
reins  loosely,  shaking  them  a  little.  The  half  wild 
horses,  with  their  uncanny  brute  sense,  knew  the  ab 
sence  of  a  master,  and  took  instant  advantage  of 
the  knowledge.  With  one  will  they  sprang,  lunged, 
and  started  forward,  plunging.  Mary  Warren 
dropped  the  lines. 

"Sit  still  there!"  she  heard  a  voice  call  out  impera 
tively.  Then,  "Whoa!  damn  you,  whoa  now!" 

66 


THE  HALT  AND  THE  BLIND 

She  could  see  nothing,  but  sensed  combat.  Sim 
Gage  had  sprung  forward  and  caught  the  cheek  strap 
of  the  nearest  horse.  It  reared  and  struck  out  wildly. 
She  heard  an  exclamation,  as  though  of  pain,  but 
could  not  see  him  as  he  swung  across  to  the  other 
horse  and  caught  his  fingers  in  its  nostrils,  still  calling 
out  to  them,  imperiously,  in  the  voice  of  a  commander. 

At  length  they  halted,  quieted.  She  heard  his  voice 
speaking  brokenly.  "Set  stil!  where  you  are,  ma'am. 
I'll  tie  'em." 

"You're  hurt!"  she  called  out.     "It  was  my  fault." 

"I'm  all  right.     Just  you  set  still." 

Apparently  he  finished  fastening  the  horses  to 
something.  She  heard  him  come  to  the  end  of  the 
seat,  knew  that  he  was  reaching  up  his  arms  to  help 
her  down.  But  when  she  swung  her  weight  from 
the  seat  she  felt  him  wince. 

"One  of  'em  caught  me  on  the  knee,"  he  admitted. 
"It  was  my  new  pants,  too." 

She  could  not  see  his  face,  gray  with  pain  now 
under  the  dust. 

"It's  all  my  fault — I  didn't  dare  tell  you — I  don't 
know  anything  about  horses.  I  don't  know  anything 
about  anything  out  here!" 

"Take  hold  of  my  left  hand  coat  sleeve,"  he  an 
swered  to  her  confession.  "We'll  walk  on  into  the 
yard.  Keep  hold  of  me,  and  I'll  keep  hold  of  them 
horses.  I'll  look  out  if  they  jump." 

For  some  reason  of  their  own  the  team  became  less 
fractious.  He  limped  along  the  road,  his  hand  at 

67 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

the  bit  of  the  more  vicious.     She  could  feel  him  limp. 

"You're  hurt — they  did  jump  on  you!"  she  reiter 
ated. 

"Knee's  busted  some,  but  we'll  git  along.  Don't 
you  mind.  Anyhow,  we're  here.  Now,  you  go  off 
a  little  ways — it's  all  level  here — and  I'll  unhitch  these 
critters." 

"That's  the  barn  over  there,"  he  added,  pointing  in 
a  direction  which  she  could  not  see.  "Plain  trail  be 
tween  the  house  and  the  corral  gate.  On  beyond  is 
my  hay  lands  and  the  willers  along  the  creek.  There's 
a  sort  of  spring  thataway" — again  he  pointed,  invisi 
bly  to  her — "and  along  it  runs  a  band  of  willers — say 
a  hundred  yards  from  the  house.  It  all  ain't  much. 
I  never  ought  to  of  brought  you  here  a-tall,  but  like 
I  said,  we'll  do  the  best  we  can.  Please  don't  be 
afraid,  or  nothing." 

Stripped  of  their  harness,  the  wild  team  turned  and 
made  off  at  a  run  down  the  road,  through  the  gate 
and  back  to  their  own  home. 

"Good  riddance,"  said  Sim  Gage,  stooping,  his 
hands  at  his  cut  knee-cap.  "Wid  can  come  over  here 
fer  his  own  buckboard,  fer  all  of  me." 

"Take  right  a-holt  of  my  arm  tight,  and  go  easy 
now,"  he  added,  turning  to  Mary  Warren.  She  felt 
his  hand  on  her  arm. 

They  passed  around  the  corner  of  the  cabin.  She 
reached  out  a  hand  to  touch  the  side  post  as  she  heard 
the  door  open. 

"It's  a  right  small  little  place  inside,"  said  Sim 
68 


Gage,  "only  one  bunk  in  it.  I've  got  some  new 
blankets  and  I'll  fix  it  all  up.  Maybe  you'll  want 
to  lay  down  and  rest  a  while  before  long. 

"Over  at  the  left  is  the  stove — when  I  git  the  fire 
going  you  can  tell  where  it  is,  all  right.  Between  the 
stove  and  the  bunk  is  the  table,  where  we  eat — I  mean 
where  I  used  to  eat.  It  all  ain't  so  big.  Pretty  soon 
you'll  learn  where  the  things  all  is.  It's  like  learning 
where  things  is  in  the  dark,  ma'am,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes.  What  time  is  it?"  she  asked  suddenly. 
"You  see,  I  can't  tell." 

"Coming  on  evening,  ma'am.  I  reckon  it's  around 
three  or  four  o'clock.  You  see,  I  ain't  got  a  clock. 
I  ain't  got  round  to  gitting  one  yet.  Mine's  just  got 
busted  recent. 

"This  here's  a  chair,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "Jest  set 
down  and  take  it  right  easy.  Lay  off  your  wraps, 
and  I'll  put  'em  on  the  bunk.  You  mustn't  worry 
about  nothing.  We're  here  now." 

By  and  by  she  felt  his  hand  touch  her  sleeve. 

"Here's  a  couple  of  poker  sticks,"  said  he.  "I 
reckon  maybe  you'll  need  to  use  one  onct  in  a  while 
to  kind  of  feel  around  with.  Well,  it's  the  same  with 
me — I'm  going  to  need  something,  kind  of,  my  own 
self.  That  knee's  going  to  leave  me  lame  a  while,  / 
believe." 

A  sudden  feeling  that  they  two  were  little  better 
than  lost  children  came  to  her  as  she  turned  toward 
him.  A  strange,  swift  feeling  of  companionship  rose 
in  her  heart.  Her  vague  fears  began  to  vanish. 

69 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"You're  hurt,"  said  she.  "What  can  I  do?  Can't 
you  put  some  witch  hazel  on  your  knee?" 

"I  ain't  got  none,  ma'am." 

"Isn't  there  some  alcohol,  or  anything,  in  the 
place?" 

"No,  ma'am — why,  yes,  there  is  too!  I  got  some 
whiskey  left.  Whiskey  is  good  fer  most  anything. 
I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  just  go  round  the  house, 
and  I'll  rub  some  of  that  whiskey  on  my  knee." 

She  heard  him  pass  out  of  the  door.  She  was 
alone.  Absolutely  she  welcomed  the  sound  of  his  foot 
again.  He  might  have  seen  her  face  almost  light  up. 
.  "When  you  git  kicked  on  a  bone,"  he  said,  "it  hurts 
worse.  She's  swelled  up  some,  but  I  reckon  she'll  get 
well  in  a  few  days  or  weeks.  I  don't  think  she's 
busted  much,  though  at  first  I  thought  he'd  knocked 
the  knee  cap  plump  off.  There's  a  cut  in  above  there. 
Cork  of  the  shoe  must  of  hit  me  there." 

The  gravity  of  her  face  was  her  answer.  She  could 
see  nothing. 

"I  reckon  you  can  smell  that  whiskey,"  said  he, 
"but  I  ain't  drunk  none — it's  just  on  my  leg,  that's 
all." 

"You're  not  a  drinking  man  ?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  yes,  of  course  I  am.  All  of  us  people  out 
here  drinks  more  or  less  when  they  can  git  it — this  is 
a  dry  state.  But  I  allow  I'll  cut  it  out  fer  a  while, 
now,  ma'am." 

"Ain't  you  hungry  now,  ma'am  ?"  he  added.  "We 
didn't  have  a  bite  to  eat  all  day." 

70 


THE  HALT  AND  THE  BLIND 

"Yes,"  said  she.  "But  how  can  I  help  cook  supper 
—what  can  I  do?" 

"There  ain't  much  you  need  to  do,  ma'am.  If  I've 
lived  here  alone  all  this  time,  and  lived  alone  every 
where  else  fer  thirty-seven  years,  I  reckon  I  can  cook 
one  more  meal." 

"For  your  housekeeper!"  she  said,  smiling  bitterly. 

"Well,  yes,"  he  replied.  "You  don't  know  where 
things  is  yet.  I  got  some  bacon  here,  and  aigs  too. 
I  brought  out  some  oranges  from  town — fer  you." 
She  did  not  see  him  color  shyly.  Oranges  were  some 
thing  Sim  Gage  never  had  brought  to  his  ranch  before. 
He  had  bought  them  of  the  Park  commissary  at  the 
station. 

"Then  I  got  some  canned  tomatoes — they're  always 
good  with  bacon.  Out  under  my  straw  pile  I  got 
some  potatoes  that  ain't  froze  so  very  bad  anyways, 
and  you  know  spuds  is  always  good.  I  didn't  bring 
no  more  flour,  because  I  had  plenty.  I  can  make  all 
sorts  of  bread,  ma'am — flapjacks,  or  biscuits,  or  even 
sour  dough — even  dough-gods.  I  ain't  so  strong 
when  it  comes  to  making  the  kind  of  bread  you  put 
in  the  oven." 

"Why,  I  can  make  that — I  know  I  can  do  that!" 
she  said,  pleased  at  the  thought. 

"We'll  start  in  on  that  to-morrow,"  said  he.  "I'll 
just  cook  you  one  meal — as  bad  as  I  can,  ma'am — so 
as  to  show  you  how  bad  I  needed  a  housekeeper  out 
here." 

The  chuckle  in  his  tones  was  contagious,  so  that 

71 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

she  almost   laughed  herself.    "All   right,"   said   sh«. 

She  heard  him  bustling  around  here  and  there,  rat 
tling  pans,  stumbling  over  sticks  of  wood  on  the  floor. 

"Haven't  you  any  chickens?"  she  asked. 

"No,  ma'am,  I  ain't  got  around  to  it  I  was  a-going 
to  have  some." 

"I'd  like  awfully  well  to  have  some  chickens. 
Those  little  yellow  things,  in  my  hands " 

"We  can  get  plenty,  ma'am.  I  can  drive  out  just 
a  leetle  ways,  about  forty  miles,  to  where  the  Mor 
mons  is  at,  and  I  can  get  plenty  of  'em,  even  them 
yeller  ones." 

"Where  is  the  dog?     Haven't  you  got  a  dog?" 

"No,  ma'am,  I  ain't  The  wolves  got  mine  last 
winter,  and  I  ain't  got  round  to  getting  another  one 
yet.  What  kind  would  you  like  ?" 

"Why,  a  collie — aren't  they  nice?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  reckon.  Only  thing  is,  they  might 
take  me  fer  a  sheep  man.  I'd  hate  that." 

"Well— even  a  little  dog?" 

"I'll  get  you  one,  any  kind  you  want.  I  allow  my 
self,  a  dog  is  a  heap  of  comfort.  I'm  about  the  only 
homesteader  in  this  valley  that  ain't  got  one  right 
now.  Some  has  sever'l." 

"I  can  make  the  coffee,  I'm  sure,"  she  said,  still 
endeavoring  to  be  of  use.  But  she  was  skimpy  in  her 
measurement,  and  he  reproached  her. 

"That  won't  make  it  strong  enough.  Don't  you 
like  it  right  strong?" 

"Well,  Annie  and  I,"  said  she  honestly,  "couldn't 
72 


THE  HALT  AND  THE  BLIND 

afford  to  make  it  very  strong.     Annie  was  my  room 
mate,  you  see." 

"We  can  afford  anything  we  want  out  here,  ma'am. 
I  got  a  credit  at  the  store.  We're  going  to  make 
six  hundred  tons  of  hay  right  out  there  in  them  med- 
ders  this  summer.  We're  going  to  have  plenty  of 
money.  Hay  is  mighty  high.  I  can  get  eight  dol 
lars  a  ton  standing  out  there,  and  not  put  a  machine 
into  it  myself.  Wheat  is  two  dollars  and  twenty  cents 
a  bushel,  the  lowest." 

"Why,  that's  fine,  that's  fine!"  said  she.  "I'm  so 
glad."  She  knew  nothing  in  the  world  about-  hay  or 
wheat. 

The  odors  from  the  stove  appealed  pleasantly 
enough  to  the  tired  woman  who  sat  on  the  box  chair, 
in  the  same  place  she  originally  had  taken.  "Draw 
up,"  said  Sim  Gage.  But  it  was  clumsy  work  for 
her  to  eat,  newly  blind.  She  was  so  sensitive  that 
she  made  no  pretence  of  concealing  her  tears. 

"I  wouldn't  worry  none,  ma'am,"  said  Sim  Gage, 
"if  I  could  help  it.  I  wouldn't  worry  any  more'n  I 
could  help,  anyways.  I'll  put  things  where  you  can 
find  'em,  and  pretty  soon  you'll  get  used  to  it." 

"But  at  least  I  can  wash  the  dishes." 

"That's  so,"  said  he.  "That's  so.  I  reckon  you 
could  do  that.  It  ain't  hard."  And  indeed  in  due 
course  he  made  arrangements  for  that  on  the  table 
in  front  of  her,  so  that  she  might  feel  easier  in  being 
useful. 

"Why,  that  isn't  the  dish  pan,"  said  she. 

73 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

Sim  Gage  flushed  with  great  guiltiness. 

"No,  ma'am,  it  ain't.  It's  only  the  wash  pan.  Fact 
is,  some  one  has  been  in  this  place  since  I  been  away, 
and  they  stole  my  dish  pan,  the  low-down  pups.  I 
didn't  know  as  you'd  notice  the  wash  pan." 

"Well,  it  will  do  for  once,"  she  said  dubiously,  and 
so  she  went  on,  making  good  shift,  wiping  the  dishes 
carefully  and  placing  them  before  her  on  the  table. 
Then  she  laughed.  "It  was  the  same  with  Annie  and 
me — we  only  had  the  one  pan.  Yours  is  much  larger 
than  ours  was.  I  always  helped  with  the  dishes." 

"That's  fine,"  said  he.  "Do  you  know,  that's  the 
part  of  keeping  house  I  always  hated  more'n  any 
thing  else,  just  washing  dishes." 

"I  almost  always  did  that  for  Annie  and  me,"  said 
Mary  Warren,  feeling  out  with  her  hands  gently  and 
trying  to  arrange  the  battered  earthenware  upon  the 
table. 

"Now,"  said  Sim  Gage,  "I  reckon  I'd  better  get 
them  new  blankets  in  and  make  up  that  bed.  Come 
along,  ma'am,  and  I'll  show  you."  And  in  spite  of  all 
he  took  her  arm  and  led  her  to  the  side  of  the  rude 
bunk. 

"I'm  so  tired,"  she  said.  "Do  you  know,  I'm  aw 
fully  scared  out  here."  Her  lips  were  quivering. 

"Ain't  a  woman  a  funny  thing,  though?"  said  Sim 
Gage.  "No  use  to  be  scared,  none  a-tall.  I'll  show 
you  how  us  folks  makes  a  bed.  There's  wilier 
branches  and  pine  underneath,  and  hay  on  top.  Over 
that  is  the  tarp,  and  now  I'm  spreading  down  the 

74 


THE  HALT  AND  THE  BLIND 

blankets.  You  can  feel  'em — soft  ones — good 
blankets,  I  can  tell  you!  Whole  bed's  kind  of  soft 
and  springy,  ma'am.  You  reckon  you  can  sleep?" 

Responsively  she  stretched  out  a  hand  and  felt 
across  the  surface  of  the  soft  new  blankets. 

"Why,  where  are  the  sheets?"  said  she. 

"Sheets!"  said  Sim  Gage  in  sudden  consternation. 
"Now,  look  at  that!  That  ornery  low-down  pup  that 
come  and  stole  my  dish  pan  must  of  took  all  my  sheets 
too !  Fact  is,  I  just  made  it  up  with  blankets,  like  you 
see.  But  you  needn't  mind — they're  plumb  new  and 
clean.  Besides,  it  gets  cold  here  along  toward  morn 
ing,  even  in  the  summer  time.  Blankets  is  best,  along 
toward  morning." 

She  stood  hesitant  as  she  heard  his  feet  turning 
away. 

"I'm  going  away  fer  a  hour  or  so,"  said  he.  "I  got 
to  take  care  of  my  horse  and  tilings.  Now,  you  feel 
around  with  your  stick,  sort  of.  I  reckon  I  better  go 
over  before  long  and  make  up  my  own  bed — my  tent 
is  beyond  the  willers  yonder." 

She  could  not  know  that  Sim  Gage's  bed  that  night 
would  be  composed  of  nothing  better  than  a  pile  of 
willow  boughs.  He  had  given  her  the  last  of  the 
new  blankets — and  his  own  old  bed  was  missing  now. 
Wid  had  fulfilled  his  threat  and  burned  it. 

She  stood  alone,  her  throat  throbbing,  hesitant,  at 
the  side  of  the  rude  bunk. 

"He's  a  kind  man,"  said  she  to  herself,  half  aloud, 
after  a  time.  "Oh,  if  only  I  could  see!" 

75 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

She  began  Co  feel  her  way  about,  stood  at  the  door 
for  a  time,  looking  out.  Something  told  her  that 
the  darkness  of  night  was  coming  on.  She  turned, 
felt  her  way  back  to  the  edge  of  the  bunk,  and  knelt 
down,  her  head  in  her  hands.  Mary  Warren  prayed. 

She  paused  after  a  long  time — half -standing,  a  hand 
upon  the  soft-piled  blankets,  her  eyes  every  way. 
Yes,  she  was  sure  it  was  dark.  And  above  all  things 
she  was  sure  that  she  was  weary,  unutterably,  un 
speakably  weary.  The  soft  warmth  of  the  blankets 
about  her  was  comforting. 

Sim  Gage  in  his  own  place  of  rest  was  uneasy. 
Darkness  came  on  late  by  the  clock  in  that  latitude. 
Something  was  on  Sim's  mind.  He  had  forgotten  to 
tell  his  new  housekeeper  how  to  make  safe  the  door! 
He  wondered  whether  she  had  gone  to  bed  or  whether 
she  was  sitting  there  in  the  dark — an  added  darkness 
all  around  her.  He  was  sure  that  if  he  told  her  how 
to  fasten  the  door  she  would  sleep  better. 

Timidly,  he  got  up  out  of  his  own  comfortless 
couch,  and  groped  for  the  electric  flash-light  which 
sometimes  may  be  seen  in  places  such  as  his  to-day. 
He  tiptoed  along  the  path  through  the  willows,  across 
the  yard,  and  knocked  timidly  at  the  door.  He  heard 
no  answer.  A  sudden  fear  came  to  him.  Had  she  in 
terror  fled  the  place — was  she  wandering  hopelessly 
lost,  somewhere  out  there  in  the  night?  He  knocked 
more  loudly,  pushed  open  the  door,  turned  the  flash 
light  here  and  there  in  the  room. 

He  saw  her  lying,  the  blankets  piled  upr  above  her, 
76 


THE  HALT  AND  THE  BLIND 

a  white  arm  thrown  out,  her  eyes  closed,  her  face 
turned  upon  her  other  arm,  deep  in  the  stupor  of 
exhaustion.  She  was  a  woman,  and  very  beautiful. 

Suddenly  frightened,  he  cut  off  the  light.  But  the 
glare  had  wakened  her.  She  started  up,  called  out, 
"Who's  there?"  Her  voice  was  vibrant  with  terror. 
"Who's  there?"  she  repeated. 

"It's  only  me,  ma'am,"  said  Sim  Gage,  his  voice 
trembling. 

"You  said  you  wouldn't  come! — Go  away!" 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you— 

"Go  away!" 

He  went  outside,  but  continued  stubbornly,  gently. 
—I  wanted  to  say  to  you,  ma'am,"  said  he,  "you 
can  lock  this  here  door  on  the  inside.  You  come 
around,  and  you'll  find  a  slat  that  drops  into  the  latch. 
Now,  there's  a  nail  on  a  string,  fastened  to  that  latch. 
You  can  find  that  nail,  and  if  you'll  just  drop  that 
bar  and  push  the  nail  in  the  hole  up  above  it — why, 
you'll  be  safe  as  can  be,  and  there  can't  no  one  get  in." 

He  stood  waiting,  fumbling  at  the  button  of  the 
flash  light.  By  accident  it  was  turned  on  again. 

He  saw  her  then  sitting  half  upright  in  the  bed, 
both  her  white  arms  holding  the  clothing  about  her, 
the  piled  mass  of  her  dark  hair  framing  a  face  which 
showed  white  against  the  background.  Her  eyes, 
unseeing,  were  wide  open,  dark,  beautiful.  Sim 
Gage's  heart  stopped  in  his  bosom.  She  was  a 
woman.  She  had  come,  of  her  own  volition.  They 
were  utterly  alone. 


CHAPTER  X 

NEIGHBORS 

SIM  GAGE,  hesitant  at  the  door  of  his  bare- 
floored  tent  in  the  cool  dawn,  saw  smoke  arising 
from  the  chimney  of  Wid  Gardner's  house. 
From  a  sense  of  need  he  determined  to  pay  Wid  a 
visit.  His  leg  was  doing  badly.  He  needed  help, 
and  knew  it.  He  hobbled  over  to  the  cabin  door, 
where  all  was  silent;  knocked,  and  knocked  again, 
more  loudly.  She  still  slept — slept  as  she  had  not 
dreamed  she  could. 

"Who's  there  ?"  she  demanded  at  length.  "Oh  yes ; 
wait  a  minute." 

He  waited  several  minutes,  but  at  length  heard  her 
at  the  door.  His  eyes  fell  upon  her  hungrily.  She 
was  fresher,  her  air  was  more  eager,  less  pitiful. 

"Good  morning,  ma'am,"  said  he.  "I've  come  to 
get  the  breakfast."  All  she  could  do  was  to  stand 
about,  wistful,  perplexed,  dumb. 

"Now,  ma'am,"  said  he,  after  he  had  cooked  the 
breakfast — like  in  all  ways  to  the  supper  of  the  night 
before — "I'm  a-going  to  ask  you  to  stay  here  alone 
a  little  while  to-day.  You  ain't  afraid,  are  you?" 

"You'll  not  be  gone  long?  It's  lonesome  to  me 
78 


NEIGHBORS 

all  the  time,  of  course."  In  reality  she  was  terrified 
beyond  words  at  the  thought  of  being  left  alone. 

"I  know  that.  But  we  got  to  get  a  dog  and  some 
hens  for  you.  I  just  thought  I'd  go  over  and  see  Wid 
Gardner,  little  while,  and  talk  over  things." 

"How  is  your  knee  now?"  she  asked.  "It  seemed 
to  me  you  sounded  rather  limpy,  Mr.  Gage." 

"Is  that  what  you  want  to  call  me,  ma'am?"  said 
he  at  last — "Mr.  Gage?  It  sounds  sort  of  strange 
to  me,  but  it  makes  me  feel  taller.  Folks  always 
called  me  Sim." 

She  heard  him  turn,  hesitant.  "You'll  not  be  gone 
long?"  said  she. 

"I  reckon  not" 

"Then  bring  me  the  pan  of  potatoes  in  here,  so  that 
I  can  peel  them." 

"You're  mighty  helpful,  ma'am.  I  don't  see  how 
I  kept  house  here  at  all  without  you. 

"Ma'am,"  he  went  on,  presently,  hesitating,  after 
his  bashful  fashion.  "This  here  is  a  right  strange 
place,  way  you  and  me  is  throwed  in  here  together. 
I  only  wish't  you  wouldn't  git  scared  about  anything, 
and  you'd  sort  of — believe  in  me,  till  we  can  shape 
things  out  somehow,  fairer  to  you.  Don't  be  scared, 
please.  I'll  take  care  of  you  the  best  I  can.  The  only 
trouble  is  I'm  afraid  about  folks,  that's  all." 

"What  do  you  mean — about  folks?" 

"If  there  was  a  woman  within  fifty  miles  of  you 
knowed  you  wasn't  married  to  me,  she'd  raise  hell 

79 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

sure.  All  women  is  that  way,  and  some  men  is,  too. 
There  ain't  been  no  room  for  talk — yet." 

"Yet?"  she  said.     "What  do  you  mean?" 

But  this  was  carrying  Sim  Gage  into  water  too  deep 
for  him.  He  only  stepped  closer  to  the  door.  "Don't 
you  be  scared  to  be  alone  a  little  while.  So  long,"  he 
added,  and  so  he  left  her. 

She  heard  his  hobbling  footfalls  across  the  boards  at 
the  end  of  the  house,  heard  them  pass  into  silence  on 
the  turf.  What  had  he  meant?  How  long  could 
she  maintain  her  supremacy  over  him,  here  alone  in  the 
wilderness,  helpless,  blind  ?  And  those  other  women  ? 
What,  indeed,  was  her  status  to  be  here?  When 
would  he  tire  of  this?  When  would  he  change? 

Questions  came  to  Sim  Gage's  mind  also.  Now 
and  again  he  paused  and  leaned  against  the  fence.  He 
was  in  much  pain  alike  of  body  and  of  mind. 

He  saw  Wid  himself  turn  out  at  his  gate  and  ap 
proach  him;  dreaded  the  grin  on  Wid's  face  even  be 
fore  he  saw  it. 

"Well,  there,  neighbor,"  said  the  oncomer.  "You're 
out  at  last.  How's  everything?" 

Sim  looked  down  at  his  bandaged  leg  with  a  ges 
ture. 

"How  come  that?" 

"One  of  them  damn  broncs  cut  me  with  his  fore 
foot  when  I  was  unhitching.  Did  you  git  track  of 
them  anywhere?  They  run  off." 

"They're  hanging  around  here,"  said  Wid  indiffer 
ently.  He  bent  over  the  wounded  member.  "So  he 

80 


NEIGHBORS 

struck  you  with  his  front  hoof?  That's  a  bad  leg, 
Sim.  It's  getting  black;  and  here's  some  red  streaks." 

"I'm  some  scared  about  it,"  said  Sim.  "Seems  to 
me  I'd  better  get  to  a  doctor.  I  got  to  get  me  a  dog 
first,  and  some  hens." 

Wid  Gardner  took  a  hasty  but  careful  inventory  of 
his  friend's  appearance,  his  shaven  face,  his  clean 
hands,  his  new  clothing. 

"How's  your  wife,  Sim?"  he  said,  grinning. 

"That  lady,  she's  all  right.  Left  her  paring  spuds. 
And  I  v/ant  to  say  to  you,  Wid,  while  I'm  away  from 
there,  everybody  else  stays  away  too." 

"What,  not  get  to  see  the  bride?  That  ain't  very 
friendly,  seems  to  me." 

"Well,  what  I   said  goes." 

"You're  a  jealous  sort  of  bridegroom?"  said  Wid, 
laughing  openly. 

The  dull  color  of  Sim's  face  showed  the  anger  in 
his  heart.  "That  lady,  she's  there  at  my  house,"  said 
he,  "and  she's  going  to  be  left  alone  there.  She's 
sort  of  shy.  This  country's  plumb  new  to  her." 

"But  honest,  Sim" — and  his  neighbor's  curiosity 
now  was  apparent — "what  sort  of  a  looker  is  she?" 

"Prettier'n  a  spotted  pup !"  said  Sim  succinctly. 

"She  like  the  country  pretty  well?" 

"Says  it's  the  prettiest  she  ever  seen,"  replied  Sim. 
"That's  what  she  said." 

"And  you  owe  all  this  to  me,  come  to  simmer  it 
down." 

"I  ain't  simmering  nothing  down,"  said  Sim. 
Si 


Here's  your  gate.  Down  there  is  mine.  Don't  none 
of  you  go  in  there  until  I  tell  you  it's  time,  that's  all." 

"Well,  I  dunno  as  I  care  to,"  replied  Wid. 

"Better  not,"  said  Sim  Gage.  "I  ain't  a-going  to 
have  that  girl  bothered  by  nobody.  Of  course,  you 
and  me  both  knows  we  ain't  married,  and  won't  never 
be.  It  was  a  housekeeper  I  was  after,  and  I  got  one, 
and  a  damn  good  one.  But  I  don't  want  her  bothered 
by  no  one  fer  a  while.  I've  played  this  game  on  the 
level  with  her  so  far,  anyways,  and  I  allow  to  play 
it  that  way  all  the  way  through." 

"But  now,"  he  added,  wincing  with  pain,  "let's  cut 
out  all  this  sort  of  thing.  I  believe  I  got  to  get  to 
a  doctor." 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  Wid  Gardner,  "I'll  hitch  up  and 
take  you  down  to  the  doctor  at  the  big  dam,  twenty- 
five  miles  below.  He's  taking  care  of  all  the  laborers 
down  there — they're  always  getting  into  accidents; 
dynamite,  you  know.  He's  got  to  be  a  good  doctor. 
I'll  take  you  down." 

"Wid,"  said  Sim,  "I  wish't  you  would.  I  don't  be 
lieve  I'll  go  back  home  first.  She'll  be  all  right  there 
alone,  won't  she?" 

Wid  still  smiled  at  him  understandingly.  "Jeal- 
ousest  man  I  ever  did  see!  Well,  have  it  your  awn 
way.  It'll  take  just  so  much  time  anyway — if  we 
get  back  by  nine  or  ten  o'clock  to-night  we'll  be  lucky. 
She'll  have  to  begin  sometime  to  get  used  to  things." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  COMPANY  DOCTOR 

THE  Two  Forks,  below  their  junction,  make  a 
mighty  stream  which  has  burst  through  a  moun 
tain  range.  Across  this  narrow  gorge  which 
it  has  rent  for  itself  in  time  immemorial,  the  insect, 
Man,  industrious  and  persevering,  has  cast  a  great  pile 
of  rock  and  concrete,  a  hundred  feet  high,  for  that 
good  folk  some  hundreds  of  miles  away  one  day  may 
bless  the  Company  for  electric  lighting.  In  this  labor 
toiled  many  man-insects  of  divers  breeds  and  races, 
many  of  them  returned  soldiers,  much  as  did  the  slaves 
of  Pharaoh  in  earlier  times.  The  work  was  on  one 
of  the  new  government  projects  revived  after  the  war, 
in  large  part  to  offer  employment  to  the  returning  men 
of  the  late  Army. 

But  Pharaoh  had  not  dynamite  or  rack-rock  or 
TNT;  so  that  in  the  total  it  were  safer  for  an  insect 
to  have  labored  in  Pharaoh's  time.  The  Company 
doctor — himself  a  returned  major — stationed  there 
by  reason  of  the  eccentricities  of  dynamite,  rack-rock 
and  other  high  explosives,  was  much  given  to  the 
sport  of  the  angle,  and  disposed  to  be  irritable  when 
called  from  the  allurements  of  the  stream  to  attend 

83 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

some  laboring  man  who  had  undertaken  to  attach  a 
fuse  by  means  of  his  teeth,  or  some  such  simple  proc 
ess.  That  is  to  say,  Doctor  Allen  Barnes  was  irri 
table  until  he  had  reeled  up  his  line  and  climbed  the 
bank  below  the  dam  site,  and  betaken  himself  to  the 
side  of  the  last  hospital  cot  where  lay  the  last  victim 
of  dynamic  and  dynamitical  industry.  After  that  he 
was  apt  to  forget  angling  and  become  an  absorbed 
surgeon,  and  a  very  able  one. 

But  on  this  particular  day,  when  word  came  to  him 
at  the  stream  side  that  a  stranger  not  of  the  force 
had  arrived  in  town  with  a  "bum  leg" — so  reported 
the  messenger,  Foreman  Flaherty — Doctor  Barnes 
was  wroth  exceedingly,  for  at  that  moment  he  was 
fast  in  a  noble  trout  that  was  far  out  in  the  white 
water,  and  giving  him,  as  he  himself  would  have 
phrased  it,  the  time  of  his  life. 

"Tell  him  I  can't  come,  Flaherty!"  he  called  over 
his  shoulder.  "I'm  busy." 

"I  reckon  that's  so,  Doc,"  said  the  foreman.  "Why 
don't  you  haul  him  in?  That  pole  of  yours  ain't  no 
good,  it's  too  limber.  If  I  had  him  on  mine  I'd  show 
you  how  to  get  him  in." 

"Oh,  you  would,  would  you,  dad  burn  you,"  re 
marked  Doctor  Barnes,  who  had  small  love  for  the 
human  race  at  many  times,  and  less  at  this  moment. 
"I  wouldn't  put  it  past  you.  Well,  this  is  my  affair 
and  not  yours.  Who  is  the  fellow,  anyhow,  and 
where  did  he  come  from,  and  what  does  he  want? 
Has  he  been  trying  to  beat  the  shot?" 

84 


THE  COMPANY  DOCTOR 

"He  ain't  on  our  job,"  replied  the  foreman.  "Come 
down  from  twenty  mile  up  the  East  Fork.  Got  kicked 
by  a  horse." 

"Huh!  What's  his  name?  Look  at  him  jump!" 
remarked  the  doctor,  with  mixed  emotions  and  ref 
erences. 

"Sim  Gage.  Come  down  with  a  feller  name  of 
Gardner  that  lives  up  in  there." 

"Oh,  above  on  the  East  Fork  ?  Say,  how's  the  fish 
ing  up  there? — Did  they  say  there  were  any  grayling 
in  there?" 

"I've  saw  Wid  Gardner  lots  of  times  before,  and  he 
says  a  feller  can  always  get  a  sackful  of  grayling  any 
time  he  wants  to,  in  there,  come  summer  time." 

"Look  at  him  go!  Ain't  that  fine?"  inquired  Dr. 
Allen  Barnes.  "Did  he  say  they  were  coming  good 
now,  up  there?  Ain't  he  a  peach?" 

"Yes,  Wid  said  the  grayling  was  risin'  right  good 
now,"  said  Flaherty.  "But  this  feller,  Sim  Gage,  his 
leg  looks  to  me  like  you'd  have  to  cut  it  off.  Can  I 
help,  Doc? — I  never  seen  a  man's  leg  cut  off,  not  in 
my  whole  life." 

"How  do  I  know  whether  it's  got  to  come  off  or 
not,  I'd  like  to  know.  See  that? — Ain't  he  a  darling, 
now,  I'm  asking  you?" 

"He  is.  Like  I  was  saying,  this  feller's  leg  is  all 
swell  up.  Leave  it  to  me,  I'd  say  we  ought  to  cut 
it  off  right  now." 

"Well,  you  go  tell  him  not  to  cut  it  off  till  I  get 
this  fish  landed,"  said  Dr.  Barnes.  "Tell  him  I'll  be 

85 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

up  there  in  a  few  minutes.  What's  the  matter  with 
it,  anyhow?" 

"Been  gone  a  couple  of  days,"  said  Flaherty,  break 
ing  off  twigs  and  casting  them  on  the  current.  "Blood 
poison,  I  reckon." 

"What's  that?"  The  Doctor  turned  under  the  spur 
of  his  professional  conscience.  "Oh,  well,  dang  it! 
Here  goes !" 

He  began  to  lift  up  and  reel  in  with  all  his  might, 
so  that  his  fish,  very  much  obliged,  broke  the  gear  and 
ran  off  with  joy,  a  yard  of  leader  attached  to  his 
mouth. 

"That's  the  way  it  goes,"  said  the  Doctor.  "Get 
fast  to  a  six-pound  brown  trout,  and  along  comes  a 
man  with  a  leg  that's  got  to  be  cut  off.  Dang  such 
a  job  anyhow — I  will  cut  his  leg  off,  too,  just  for 
this!" 

Fuming  as  usual,  he  climbed  the  steep  bank  below 
the  white  face  of  the  dam  and  crossed  the  street  to 
his  own  raw  shack,  which  was  office  and  home  alike. 
He  gazed  resentfully  at  his  parted  leader  as  he  hung 
up  the  rod  on  the  nails  at  the  rear  of  the  small  porch, 
and  sighing,  entered  the  office  for  his  surgical  case. 

"Where  is  that  fellow?"  he  demanded  of  Flaherty, 
who  had  followed  him  in. 

"That's  him  settin'  on  the  wagon  seat  up  with  Wid 
Gardner,  in  the  road,"  replied  the  messenger.  "He's 
got  his  foot  up  on  the  dash  board  like  it  was  sore, 
ain't  he?" 

Grumblingly  Dr.  Allen  Barnes  passed  on  up  the 
86 


THE  COMPANY  DOCTOR 

road  to  the  wagon  where  two  passengers  awaited  his 
coming. 

"Are  you  the  man  that  wants  me?"  he  asked,  look 
ing  up  at  Sim  Gage. 

"Why,  yeg,"  said  Sim  Gage,  his  face  puckered  up 
into  his  usual  frown  of  perplexity.  "I  reckon  so,  Doc. 
I  got  my  leg  hurt." 

''Well,  come  on  over  to  the  hospital." 

"Hospital?  I  can't  go  to  no  hospital.  I  can't 
afford  it,  Doc" 

"Well,  I  can't  cut  your  leg  off  right  out  here  in  the 
street,  can  I,  man?  I'm  offering  you  the  hospital  free 
— the  Company  takes  care  of  those  tilings.  Not  that 
I've  got  any  business  taking  care  of  you,  but  I  will." 

"Why,  this  ain't  nothing,"  said  Sim  Gage,  pointing 
a  finger  towards  his  swollen  knee,  "just  a  leetle  kick 
of  a  bronc,  that's  all.  I  got  to  be  getting  right  back, 
Doc — I  ain't  got  much  time." 

"It  don't  take  much  time  to  cut  off  a  leg,"  said 
Dr.  Barnes.  "Do  it  in  three  minutes."  His  face, 
professionally  grim,  showed  no  token  of  a  smile. 

"Well,  I  left  my  folks  all  alone  up  there,"  began 
Sim. 

"You  did,  eh?  Well,  they'll  be  there  when  you  get 
back,  won't  they?" 

"I  dunno,  Doc " 

"Well,  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,  if  you  don't. 
But  tell  me,  how's  the  fishing  up  in  there?  Any  gray- 
ling?" 

"All  you  want,"  said  Sim  Gage.     "Come  along  up 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

any  time,  and  I'll  take  you  out    But  no,  I  guess  may- 

Dr.  Barnes  looked  at  him  curiously,  and  Wid  Gard 
ner  went  on  to  explain  for  his  neighbor. 

"You  see,  Doc,  Sim,  he's  just  newly  married,"  said 
he,  "or  else  he's  going  to  be  right  soon.  Sim,  he's 
kind  of  bashful  about  having  you  around." 

"Thanks!  But  come — I  haven't  any  time.  Come 
into  the  office,  and  we'll  have  a  look  at  the  leg." 

Wid  drove  after  the  stalking  figure,  which  presently 
drew  up  in  front  of  the  little  office.  In  a  few  mo 
ments  they  had  Sim  Gage,  the  injured  member  bared, 
sitting  up  in  a  white  chair  in  a  very  white  and  clean 
miniature  hospital  which  Dr.  Barnes  had  installed. 

"This  wound  hasn't  been  cleaned  properly,"  com 
mented  the  doctor  at  once.  "What  did  you  put  on  it?" 

"Why,  whiskey.    I  didn't  have  nothing  else." 

"Try  water  the  next  time,"  said  Dr.  Barnes  with 
sarcasm.  "We'll  have  to  paint  it  up  with  iodine  now. 
Lockjaw,  blood  poison  and  amputation  is  the  very 
least  that  will  happen  to  you  if  you  don't  look  out." 

"Amputation?"  Sim  turned  with  curiosity  to  his 
neighbor. 

"It's  where  they  cut  off  your  leg,  Sim,"  said  Wid, 
explaining. 

"Oh,  well,  maybe  we'll  save  his  leg,"  said  Dr. 
Barnes,  grinning  at  last.  "But  don't  let  this  occur 
again,  my  Christian  friend.  This  will  lay  you  up  for 
two  or  three  weeks  the  best  way  it  can  happen,  in  all 
likelihood.  Well,  I'll  swab  it  out  and  tie  it  up,  and 

88 


THE  COMPANY  DOCTOR 

give  you  some  iodine.  Keep  it  painted.  How  big  do 
the  grayling  go  up  in  your  country?" 

"I've  seen  plenty  over  three  pounds,"  said  Sim  Gage. 

"I  don't  like  to  doubt  your  word,  my  friend,  but 
if  you'll  show  me  one  three-pound  grayling,  you  won't 
ever  owe  me  anything  for  fixing  up  your  leg." 

"I  sure  can,  Doc,"  said  Sim  Gage.  "Grasshoppers 
is  best." 

"For  you,  maybe.  If  you  please,  I'll  try  Queen  of 
the  Waters,  or  Professor,  long-shanked,  and  about 
Number  8.  And  I  say  again,  if  you'll  put  me  up  to 
a  three-pound  grayling  I'll  cut  off  your  leg  for  noth 
ing  any  time  you  want  it  done !" 

"Well,  now,"  said  Sim  Gage,  his  forehead  pucker 
ing  up,  "I  don't  want  to  put  you  under  no  obligations, 
Doc." 

"He  won't,  neither,  Doc,"  interrupted  Wid  Gardner, 
while  the  surgical  dressing  was  going  forward. 
"There's  holes  in  there  twenty  feet  deep,  and  I've  see 
two  or  three  hundred  grayling  in  there  dang  near  as 
long  as  your  arm." 

"Ouch,  Doc!"  remarked  Sim  Gage,  "that  yellow 
stuff  smarts." 

"It's  got  to,  my  man.  A  couple  of  days  more  and 
you  might  really  have  lost  that  leg,  sure  enough.  I've 
seen  plenty  of  legs  lost,  my  man.  I  don't  think  it'll 
go  much  further  up — I  hope  not.  But  blood  poisoning 
is  something  bad  to  have,  and  I'll  tell  you  that." 

"You  ain't  been  in  this  country  long,  have  yon. 
Doc?"  queried  Wid  Gardner.  "You  come  on  up  and 

Sq 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

go  fishing  with  us  fellers.  A  few  weeks  from  now 
it'll  be  better.  I  ain't  got  no  woman  at  my  place,  but 
I  can  cook  some.  Sim's  got  a  woman  at  his." 

"What's  that?"  inquired  Dr.  Barnes.  "Oh,  the  wo 
man  that's  waiting  ?  What  do  you  mean  about  that  ?" 

"Well,"  replied  his  patient,  his  forehead  furrowed, 
"that  is,  we  ain't  rightly  married  yet.  Just  sort  of 
studying  things  over,  you  know,  Doc.  We're  wait 
ing  for — well,  until  things  kind  of  shapes  up.  You 
understand,  Doc?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  do,"  said  the  Doctor,  looking 
at  him  straightly.  "You  understand  one  thing — there 
can't  any  funny  business  go  on  in  this  valley  now. 
The  administration's  mighty  keen.  You  know  that." 

"There  ain't,  Doc.  She's  my  housekeeper.  I'd  ask 
you  in  all  right,  only  she  can't  cook,  nor  nothing." 

"A  housekeeper,  and  can't  cook?     How's  that?" 

Sim  Gage  wiped  off  his  face,  finding  the  temperature 
high  for  him.  "Well,"  said  he,  "Wid  there  and  me, 
we  advertised  fer  a  housekeeper.  This  girl  come  on 
out.  And  when  she  come  she  was  blind." 

"Blind!" 

"Blind  as  a  bat.  So  she  says  she's  fooled  me.  I 
sort  of  felt  like  we'd  all  fooled  her.  She's  a  lady." 

"Why  don't  you  send  her  back,  man?"  asked  the 
doctor,  with  very  visible  disgust. 

"I  can't.  How  can  I,  when  she's  blind?  She 
wasn't  born  that  way,  Doc,  far's  I  can  tell,  but  she 
was  blind  when  she  come  out  here.  Now,  leaving 
her  setting  there  alone,  it  makes  me  feel  kind  of  ner- 

90 


THE  COMPANY  DOCTOR 

votis.    You   don't   blame  me,   now,   do  you,   Doc?" 

"No,"  said  Dr.  Barnes  gravely,  "I  don't  blame  you. 
You  people  out  here  get  me  guessing  sometimes.  But 
you  make  me  tired." 

He  swept  a  hand  across  his  face  and  eyes,  just  be 
cause  he  was  tired.  "That's  all  I'm  going  to  do  for 
you  to-day,  my  man,"  said  he  in  conclusion.  "Go  on 
back  home  and  fight  out  your  own  woman  problems 
— that  isn't  in  my  line." 

"She — I  reckon  she'd  be  glad  to  see  you — if  she 
could.  You  see,  she's  a  lady,  Doc.  She  ain't  like 
us  people  out  here." 

The  physician  looked  at  him  with  curious  appraisal 
in  his  eyes,  studying  both  the  man  and  this  peculiar 
problem  which  all  at  once  had  been  brought  to  view. 

'A  lady?"  said  he  at  last,  somewhat  disgusted.  "If 
she  was  any  lady  she'd  never  have  answered  any  ad 
vertisement  such  as  you  two  people  say  you  have  been 
fools  enough  to  print." 

"Look  here!  That  ain't  so,"  said  Sim  Gage  with 
sudden  heat.  "That  ain't  so  none  a-tall.  Now,  she 
is  a  lady — I  won't  let  nobody  say  no  different.  Only 
thing,  she's  a  blind  lady,  that's  all.  She  falls  over 
things  when  she  walks.  She  got  her  eyes  plumb  full 
of  cinders  on  the  train,  I  expect.  Cinders  is  awful. 
Why,  one  time  when  I  was  going  out  to  Arizony 
I  got  a  cinder  in  my  eye,  and  I  want  to  tell  you — 

"Listen  at  him  lie,  Doc !"  interrupted  Wid  Gardner. 
"He  never  was  nowhere  near  Arizony  in  his  life. 
That's  his  favoright  lie.  But  he's  telling  you  the  truth, 

91 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

near  as  I  know  it,  about  that  woman.  She  did  come 
out  to  be  a  housekeeper,  and  she  did  come  out  here 
blind  Now,  couldn't  she  be  a  lady  and  that  be  true  ?" 

"How  can  I  tell?"  said  Dr.  Barnes.  "All  I  know 
is  that  you  people  came  down  here  and  made  me  break 
loose  from  the  best  fish  I've  seen  since  I've  been  out 
here.  My  best  fish  of  a  lifetime — I'll  never  get  hold 
of  a  trout  like  that  again." 

Sim  Gage  was  experiencing  at  the  moment  mingled 
gratitude  and  resentment,  but  nothing  could  quench 
his  own  hospitable  impulses.  "Aw,  come  on  up,  Doc," 
said  he,  "won't  you  ?  We  carr  figure  out  some  way 
to  take  care  of  you  right  at  nty  place.  You  and  me 
can  sleep  in  the  tent" 

"So  you  live  in  the  tent?"  inquired  Dr.  Barnes. 

"Why,  of  course.  She  stays  in  the  house.  And 
she's  there  all  alone  this  very  minute." 

"Hit  the  trail,  men,"  said  Dr.  Barnes.  "Go  on 
back  home,  and  stay  there,  you  damn  sagebrushers !" 


CHAPTER  XII 

LEFT  ALONE 

MARY  WARREN,  alone  in  the  little  cabin, 
found  herself  in  a  new  world  whose  exist 
ence  she  had  never  dreamed — that  subjective 
and  subconscious  land  which  bridges  the  forgotten 
genesis  of  things  to  the  usual  and  busy  world  of  the 
senses,  in  which  we  pass  our  daily  lives.  Indeed,  never 
before  had  she  known  what  human  life  really  is,  how 
far  out  of  perspective,  how  selfish,  how  distorted. 
Now,  alone  in  the  darkness,  back  in  the  chaos  and 
the  beginning,  she  saw  for  the  first  time  how  small 
a  thing  is  life  and  how  ill  it  is  for  the  most  part 
lived.  A  fly  buzzed  loudly  on  the  window  pane — a 
bold,  bronzed,  lustrous  fly,  no  doubt,  she  said  to  her 
self,  pompous  and  full  of  himself — buzzed  again  and 
again,  until  the  drone  of  his  wings  blurred,  grew  con 
fused,  ceased.  She  wondered  if  he  had  found  a  web. 

The  darkness  oppressed  her  like  a  velvet  pall.  She 
strained  her  eyes,  trying  in  spite  of  all  to  pierce  it, 
beat  at  it,  picked  at  it,  to  get  it  from  around  her  head ; 
and  only  paused  at  length,  her  face  beaded,  because 
she  knew  that  way  madness  lay. 

Time  was  a  thing  now  quite  out  of  her  comprehen- 

93 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

sion.  Night  and  day,  all  the  natural  and  accustomed 
divisions  of  time,  were  gone  for  her.  She  felt  at  the 
hands  of  her  little  watch,  but  found  her  mind  con 
fused — she  could  not  remember  whether  it  was  the 
stem  or  the  hinge  which  meant  noon  or  midnight. 

A  thousand  new  doubts  and  fears  of  her  newly 
created  world  assailing  her,  she  felt  rather  than  saw 
the  flood  of  the  sunlight  when  she  stepped  to  the  door 
gropingly,  and  stood,  stick  in  hand,  looking  out.  Yes, 
that  was  the  sun.  But  it  was  hard  to  reason  which 
way  was  north,  which  way  lay  the  east,  which  was 
her  home. 

Home?  She  had  no  home!  These  years,  she  had 
known  no  home  but  the  single  room  which  she  had 
occupied  with  Annie  Squires.  And  now  even  that 
was  gone.  And  even  if  it  were  not  gone,  she  had  no 
means  of  going  back  to  it — her  money  was  almost 
exhausted.  And  this  black  world  was  not  the  earth, 
this  new  covering  of  her  soul  was  not  life.  Oh,  small 
enough  seemed  Mary  Warren  to  her  own  self  now. 

She  stumbled  back  to  her  seat  behind  the  table,  near 
the  bunk,  and  tried  to  take  up  her  knitting  again.  The 
silence  seemed  to  her  so  tremendous  that  she  listened 
intently  for  some  sound,  any  sound.  Came  only  the 
twitter  of  a  little  near-by  bird,  the  metallic  clank  of 
a  meadow  lark  far  off  across  the  meadows.  They  at 
least  were  friendly,  these  birds.  She  could  have  kissed 
them,  held  them  close  to  her,  these  new  friends. 

But  why  did  he  not  come  back — the  man?  What 
was  going  to  happen  if  he  did  come  back?  How  long 

94 


LEFT  ALONE 

would  all  this  last  ?    Must  it  come  to  death,  or  to  the 
acceptance  of  terror  or  of  shame,  as  the  price  of  life? 

She  began  to  face  her  problem  with  a  sort  of  stolid 
courage  or  resolution — she  knew  not  what  to  call  it. 
She  was  at  bay — that  was  the  truth  of  it.  There  must 
be  some  course  of  action  upon  which  presently  she 
must  determine.  What  could  it  be?  How  could  she 
take  arms  against  her  new,  vast  sea  of  troubles,  so 
far  more  great  than  falls  to  the  average  woman,  no 
matter  how  ill,  how  afflicted,  how  unfit  for  the  vast, 
grim  conflict  which  ends  at  last  at  the  web? 

One  way  out  would  be  to  end  life  itself.  Her  in 
stinct,  her  religious  training,  her  principles,  her  faith, 
rebelled  against  that  thought.  No — no!  That  was 
not  right.  Her  life,  even  her  faint,  pulsing,  crippled 
life,  was  a  sacred  trust  to  her.  She  must  guard  it, 
not  selfishly,  but  because  it  was  right  to  do  so.  She 
could  feel  the  sunshine  outside,  could  hear  the  birds 
singing.  They  said  that  life  still  existed,  that  she 
also  must  live  on,  even  if  there  were  no  sound  of  sing 
ing  in  her  own  heart  ever  again. 

Then  she  must  go  back  to  the  East,  whence  she  had 
come? — Even  if  great-hearted  Annie  would  listen  to 
that  and  take  her  back,  where  was  the  money  for  the 
return  passage?  How  could  she  ask  this  man  for 
money,  this  man  whom  she  had  so  bitterly  deceived? 
No,  her  bridges  were  burned. 

What  then  was  left?  Only  the  man  himself.  And 
in  what  capacity?  Husband;  or  what?  And  if  not  a 
husband,  what? 

95 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

.  .  .  No,  she  resolved.  She  would  accept  duty  as 
the  price  of  life,  which  also  was  a  duty;  but  she  would 
never  relax  what  always  to  her  had  meant  life,  had 
been  a  part  of  her,  the  principles  ingrained  in  her 
teachings  and  her  practices,  ever  since  she  was  a  child. 
No,  it  was  husband  or  nothing. 

And  surely  he  had  been  all  that  he  had  said  he  would 
be.  He  was  kindly,  he  was  chivalrous,  he  had  proved 
that.  She  wondered  how  he  looked.  And  what  had 
she  now  to  offer  for  perfection  in  a  man?  Was  she 
not  reduced  to  the  bargain  counter,  in  the  very  base 
ment  of  life?  If  so,  what  must  be  her  bargain  here? 

And  then  she  recalled  the  refusal  of  Sim  Gage  him 
self  to  think  of  marriage.  He  had  said  he  was  not 
good  enough  for  her.  How  could  she  then  marry 
him,  even  if  she  so  wished?  Must  she  woo  him  and 
persuade  him,  argue  with  him  ?  All  her  own  virginal 
soul,  all  the  sanctity  of  her  life,  rebelled  against  that 
thought  also. 

Object,  matrimony!  What  a  cruel  jest  it  all  had 
been.  What  a  terrible  dilemma,  this  into  which  it 
all  had  resolved  itself.  Object,  matrimony ! 

So  if  this  man — so  she  reasoned  again,  wearily — 
if  this  man  who  had  been  kind  at  least,  even  if  un 
couth,  was  willing  to  take  her  with  all  her  stories 
told,  and  all  shortcomings  known  and  understood — 
if  he  was  willing  to  take  chances  and  be  content — was 
that  indeed  the  only  way  out  for  her,  Mary  Warren  ? 

What  made  it  all  most  bitter,  most  difficult,  most 
horrible  for  her  was  the  strength  of  her  own  soul. 

96 


LEFT  ALONE 

Was  It  the  right  tking  to  do — was  it  the  courageous 
and  valiant  thing  to  do?  Those  were  the  two  ques 
tions  which  alone  allowed  her  to  face  that  way  for  an 
answer;  and  they  were  the  very  two  which  drove  her 
hardest.  Could  she  not  do  much,  if  in  the  line  of 
duty?  Sacrifice  was  no  new  thing  for  women.  .  .  . 
And  the  war!  .  .  .  This  was  not  a  time  for  little 
thoughts. 

Such  are  some  of  the  questions  a  woman  must  ask 
and  answer,  because  she  is  a  woman.  They  are  asked 
and  answered  every  day  of  the  world;  perhaps  not 
often  so  cruelly  as  here  in  this  little  cabin. 

She  began,  weakly,  to  try  to  resign  herself  to  some 
frame  of  mind  by  which  she  could  entertain  the  bare, 
brutal  thought  of  this  alternative.  She  had  come 
more  than  a  thousand  miles  to  meet  this  man  by  plan, 
by  arrangement.  Oh,  no  (so  she  argued),  it  could  not 
be  true  that  there  was  but  one  man  for  one  woman, 
one  woman  for  a  man,  in  all  the  world.  Annie  must 
have  been  right.  Propinquity  did  it — was  that  not 
why  men  and  women  nearly  always  married  in  their 
own  village,  their  own  social  circle?  Well,  then,  here 
was  propinquity.  Object,  matrimony!  Would  pro 
pinquity  solve  all  this  at  last,  as  though  this  were  a 
desert  island,  they  two  alone  remaining?  God! 

Was  it  indeed  true,  asked  Mary  Warren,  in  her  bit 
ter  darkness,  that  the  rude  doctrine  of  material  ideas 
alone  must  rule  the  world  now  in  this  strange,  new,  in 
choate,  revolutionary  age?  Was  it  indeed  true  that 
sentiment,  the  emotions,  the  tenderer  things  of  life, 

97 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

a  woman's  immeasurable  inheritance — must  all  these 
things  go  also  into  the  discards  of  the  world's  vast 
bloody  bargain  counter? 

She  remembered  Annie's  rude  but  well-meant  words, 
back  there  where  they  once  crudely  struggled  with 
these  great  questions.  "What's  the  use  of  trying  to 
change  the  world,  Sis?"  she  had  said.  "Something's 
going  wrong  every  minute  of  the  day  and  night — 
something's  coming  up  all  the  time  that  ought  to  be 
different.  But  we  ain't  got  nothing  to  do  with  run~ 
ning  the  world — just  running  our  own  two  lives  is 
enough  for  us." 

Hours  or  moments  later — she  could  not  have  told 
which — she  raised  her  head  suddenly.  What  was  it 
that  she  had  heard?  There  was  a  cough,  a  footfall 
in  the  yard. 

Oh,  then  he  was  coming  home !  Why  not  have  the 
whole  thing  out  now,  over  once  and  for  all?  Why 
not  speak  plainly  and  have  it  done  ?  He  had  not  been 
so  terrible.  He  was  an  ignorant  man,  but  not  un 
kind,  not  brutal. 

She  felt  the  light  in  the  door  darken,  knew  that 
some  one  was  standing  there.  But  something,  sub 
conscious,  out  of  her  new,  dark  world — something, 
she  could  not  tell  what — told  her  this  was  not  Sim 
Gage. 

She  reached  out  her  hand  instinctively.  By  mere 
chance  it  fell  upon  the  heavy  revolver  in  its  holster 
which  Sim  had  hung  upon  the  pole  at  the  head  of  her 
bed.  She  caught  it  out,  drew  back  into  the  room,  to- 

98 


LEFT  ALONE 

ward  the  head  of  the  bed,  and  stumbling  into  her  rude 
box  chair,  sat  there,  the  revolver  held  loosely  in  her 
hand.  She  knew  little  of  its  action. 

She  heard  a  heavy  step  on  the  floor,  that  did  not 
sound  familiar,  a  clearing  of  the  throat  which  was  yet 
more  unfamiliar,  a  laugh  which  was  the  last  thing 
needed.  This  man  had  no  business  there,  else  he 
would  not  have  laughed. 

"Who's  there?"  she  called  out,  tremulously.  "Who 
are  you?"  She  turned  on  him  her  sightless  eyes,  a 
vast  terror  in  her  soul. 

"Good  morning,"  said  a  throaty  voice.  She  could 
fairly  hear  him  grin.  "How's  everything  this  morn 
ing?  Where's  your  man  this  morning?" 

"He's — just  across  in  the  meadows — he'll  be  back 
soon,"  said  Mary  Warren. 

"Is  that  so?  I  seen  him  ten  miles  down  the  road 
just  a  while  back.  Now,  look  here,  woman " 

He  had  come  fully  into  the  room,  and  now  he  saw 
in  her  lap  the  weapon.  Half  unconsciously  she  raised 
it. 

"Look  out!"  he  called.  "It  may  be  loaded.  Drop 
it!" 

"Come  a  step  further,  and  I'll  shoot!"  said  Mary 
Warren.  And  then,  although  he  did  not  know  that 
she  was  sightless,  he  saw  on  her  face  that  look 
which  might  well  warn  him.  Any  ruffian  knows  that 
a  woman  is  more  apt  to  shoot  than  is  a  man. 

This  ruffian  paused  now  half  way  inside  the  door 
and  looked  about  him.  A  grin  spread  across  his  wide,. 

99 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

high-cheeked  face.  He  reached  down  silently  to  the 
stout  spruce  stick,  charred  at  one  end,  that  stood  be 
tween  him  and  the  stove.  Grasping  it  he  advanced 
on  tiptoe,  silent  as  a  cat,  toward  the  woman.  He 
was  convinced  that  her  sight  was  poor,  almost  con 
vinced  that  she  did  not  see  at  all,  because  she  made 
no  move  when  he  stopped,  the  stick  drawn  back.  With 
a  swift  sweep  he  struck  the  barrel  of  the  revolver  a 
blow  so  forceful  that  it  was  cast  quite  across  the  room. 
He  sprang  upon  it  at  once. 

Mary  Warren  cried  out,  drew  back  as  far  as  she 
could.  The  impact  of  the  blow  had  crushed  a  finger 
of  the  hand  that  held  the  weapon.  She  wrung  her 
hands,  held  up  the  bloody  finger.  "Who  are  you — 
what  do  you  want?"  she  moaned. 

"That's  what  you  get  when  you  run  against  a  real 
one,"  sneered  the  voice  of  the  man,  who  now  stood 
fully  within  the  little  room.  "Just  keep  quiet  now." 

"What  do  you  mean?  What  are  you  going  to  do?" 
She  felt  about  again  for  some  weapon,  anything,  but 
could  find  nothing. 

"That's  a  purty  question  to  ask,  ain't  it  now?" 
sneered  her  assailant  She  could  catch  the  reek  of 
raw  spirits  around  him  as  he  stood  near  by.  She  shud 
dered. 

"Sim !"  she  called  out  aloud  at  last.    "Sim !    Sim !" 

The  name  caused  a  vast  mirth  in  her  captor.  "Sim  i 
Sim !"  he  mocked  her.  "Lot  o'  help  Sim'd  be  if  he  was 
here,  wouldn't  he?  As  though  I  cared  for  that  dirty 
loafer.  He's  going  to  git  all  that's  comin'  to  him. 

100 


LEFT  ALONE 

Aw,  Sim !  He'll  leave  us  Soviet  sabcats  alone.  We're 
thinkers.  We're  free  men.  We  run  our  own  gov 
ernment,  and  we  run  our  own  selves,  too." 

The  liquor  had  made  the  man  loquacious.  He  must 
boast.  She  tried  to  guess  what  he  might  mean. 

But  something  in  the  muddled  brain  of  the  man  re 
tained  recollection  of  an  earlier  purpose.  "Stay  in 
side,  you!"  he  said.  "I  got  work  to  do.  If  you  go 
outside  I'll  kill  you.  Do  you  hear  me?" 

She  heard  his  feet  passing,  heard  them  upon  the 
scattered  boards  near  the  door,  then  muffled  in  the 
grass.  She  could  not  guess  what  he  was  about. 

He  went  to  the  edge  of  the  standing  grass  beyond 
the  dooryard,  and  began  sowing,  broadcast,  spikes, 
nails,  bits  of  iron,  intended  to  ruin  the  sickle  blades 
of  the  mowers  when  they  came  to  work.  Even  he 
thrust  a  spike  or  bolt  here  or  there  upright  in  the 
ground  to  catch  a  blade. 

Mary  Warren  where  she  sat  knew  none  of  this,  but 
she  heard  a  sound  presently  which  she  could  not  mis 
take — the  crackling  of  fire!  The  scent  of  it  came  to 
her  nostrils.  The  man  had  fired  the  meager  remnants 
of  Sim  Gage's  hay  stacks. 

She  heard  next  a  shot  or  two,  but  could  not  tell 
what  they  meant.  She  could  not  know  that  he  was 
firing  into  the  dumb,  gaunt  cattle  which  hung  about 
the  ricks. 

Then  later  she  heard  something  which  caused  her 
very  soul  to  shiver,  made  her  blood  run  ice — the 
shrieking  scream  of  a  horse  in  death  agony — the 

101 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

hoarser  braying  of  a  mule,  both  dying  amid  fire !  She 
did  not  understand  it,  could  not  have  guessed  it;  but 
he  had  set  fire  also  to  the  stables.  Brutal  to  the  last 
extreme,  he  left  the  animals  penned  to  die  in  the 
flames,  and  laughed  at  their  agony. 

Again  and  again  the  awful  sounds  came  to  her.  She 
was  hysterical  when  she  heard  his  footstep  approach 
once  more,  shrieked  aloud  for  mercy.  He  mocked  her. 

"Stop  it !  Cut  it  out,  I  say.  Come  on  now — do  you 
want  to  stay  here  and  burn  up  in  the  house?" 

"I  can't  see — I'm  blind,"  was  all  she  could  manage 
to  say. 

"Blind,  huh?"  He  laughed  now  uproariously. 
"Well,  it's  a  good  thing  you  was  blind,  or  else  you 
might  of  seen  Sim  Gage!  Did  you  ever  see  Sim? 
What  made  you  come  here?  What  did  you  come 
for?" 

"I'm  his  housekeeper.     He  employed  me " 

"Employed  you?  For  what? — for  housekeeping? 
It  looks  like  it,  don't  it?  Where  did  you  come  from, 
gal?" 

"East — Ohio — Cleveland,"  she  spoke  almost  uncon 
sciously  and  truthfully. 

"Cleveland?  Plenty  of  our  people  there  too  still 
in  the  iron  works.  Cleveland?  And  how  come  you 
out  here?" 

"I'm  ill — I'm  a  blind  woman.  Can't  you  leave  me 
alone  ?  Are  you  any  man  at  all  ?" 

He  remained  unmoved,  phlegmatic.  "So?  Nice 
talk  about  you  and  Sim  Gage !  Was  you  two  married  ? 

102 


LEFT  ALONE 

I  know  you  ain't    You  come  out  to  marry  him,  though, 
didn't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

"Next  week — he's  gone  for  the  minister  to-day." 
She  said  anything,  the  first  thing. 

"That's  a  lie,"  said  the  coarse  voice  of  the  man  she 
could  not  see.  "I  seen  him  ten  mile  down  toward  the 
dam,  I  tell  you,  with  Wid  Gardner,  and  Nels  Jensen's 
folks,  below,  said  they  was  going  for  a  doctor,  not  a 
preacher.  He  wouldn't  marry  no  blind  woman  like 
you,  no  ways." 

She  sank  back,  limp,  her  face  in  her  bloody  hands, 
as  she  lay  against  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

"Come  now,"  said  he.  "We  got  no  time  to  waste. 
We'll  see  what  the  other  fellers  think.  Housekeeper — 
huh !  You  said  you  wasn't  married  to  him.  You  never 
will  be,  now." 

"You  brute !"  she  cried,  with  the  courage  of  the  cor 
nered  thing,  the  courage  of  the  prisoner  bound  to 
the  stake  for  torture.  "You  brute!" 

She  could  hear  him  chuckle  throatily.  "You  don't 
know  me — I'm  Big  Aleck,  general  of  the  Soviet  broth 
ers  in  this  county."  He  juggled  phrases  he  never 
had  understood. 

"You  ought  to  hang !"  she  panted.  "You  will  hang, 
some  day." 

"You  better  look  a  little  out,  gal,  I  tell  you  that. 
You  come  along  out  to  the  camp,  and  I'll  see  how  you 
like  that!" 

103 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

She  felt  his  iron  grasp  fall  upon  her  wrist  He 
dragged  her  across  the  floor  as  though  she  weighed 
nothing.  She  had  been  wholly  helpless,  even  if  in 
possession  of  all  her  faculties  and  all  her  senses.  He 
flung  her  from  him  upon  the  grass,  laughing  as  she 
rose  and  tried  to  run,  bringing  up  in  the  willows, 
which  she  could  not  see.  She  could  hear  the  flames 
crackling  at  the  hay  ricks  on  beyond.  By  this  time 
the  sounds  from  the  burning  barn  mercifully  had 
ceased,  but  she  heard  him  now  at  some  further  work. 
He  was  trying  to  light  the  battered  edge  of  the  door 
with  a  match,  but  it  would  not  burn. 

"Where's  the  oil,  gal?"  he  demanded. 

"We've  got  none,"  said  she,  guessing  his  purpose 
of  firing  the  house  now. 

He  made  no  answer  but  a  grunt,  and  finding  the  ax 
at  the  wood  pile  nearby,  began  to  hack  at  the  jamb 
of  the  door,  so  that  a  series  of  chips  stood  out  from 
it,  offering  better  food  for  flames.  She  heard  him 
again  strike  a  match — caught  the  faint  smell  of  burn 
ing  pine. 

"Come  on !"  Again  she  felt  his  hand.  He  dragged 
her,  her  feet  stumbling  in  the  grass.  She  could  hear 
horses  snorting,  so  there  was  some  vehicle  here,  she 
supposed.  He  flung  her  up  to  the  seat,  jerked  loose 
the  halters,  and  climbed  in  as  the  team  plunged  for-*, 
ward.  Had  any  one  seen  the  careening  wagon,  seen 
the  upflung  arm  of  a  woman  swaying  in  the  grasp 
of  the  man  who  sat  beside  her  in  the  seat — had  any 
one  heard  the  laugh  of  the  man,  the  shrieks  of  the 

104 


*TOU   OT7GHT   TO   TTANG!"   SATO   SHE 


LEFT  ALONE 

woman,  struggling  and  calling, — he  must  have  thought 
that  two  drunken  human  beings  instead  of  one  were 
endeavoring  to  show  the  astonished  sky  how  bestial 
life  may  be  even  here  in  America  in  an  undone  day. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   SABCAT   CAMP 

TO  Mary  Warren's  ears,  had  she  struggled  in  her 
captor's  arms  less  violently,  the  sound  of  the 
wheels  might  have  changed  from  the  loam  of 
the  lane  to  the  gravel  of  the  highway  as  they  passed. 
But  she  heard  nothing,  noted  nothing,  did  not  under 
stand  why,  after  a  time,  the  driver  pulled  up,  and 
with  much  profanity  for  his  team,  descended  from  his 
seat.  Apparently  he  fastened  the  horses  near  the 
road.  He  came  back.  "Git  down,  and  hurry,"  said 
he.  "Here's  where  we  change  cars." 

She  heard  the  grind  of  a  motor's  starting  crank,  the 
chug  of  an  engine.  As  its  strident  whirring  contin 
ued  her  captor  came  again  to  her  side,  and  with  rude 
ness  aided  her  to  the  seat  of  what  she  took  to  be  a 
small  car.  She  felt  the  leap  of  the  car  under  his  rude 
driving  as  he  turned  the  gas  on  full,  felt  it  sway  as  it 
set  to  its  pace.  She  now  knew  that  they  were  on 
some  highway. 

"Now  we  go  better,"  laughed  Big  Aleck,  his  face 
at  her  ear.  "They  can't  catch  us  now.  These  Johns 
'11  find  what's  what,  heh?  Look  yonder — five  fires 
in  sight,  besides  plenty  stock  bumped  off.  They'll 

1 06 


THE  SABCAT  CAMP 

learn  how  the  free  brothers  work.  If  you  can't  see, 
you  can't  tell.  All  the  better !" 

She  shrank  back  into  the  seat,  undertaking  no  re 
ply  to  his  maudlin  boastings.  She  was  passing  away 
from  the  only  place  in  all  the  world  that  meant  shelter 
for  her  now,  and  already  it  felt  like  home,  this  place 
that  she  was  leaving. 

The  car  shifted  and  slowed  down,  apparently  on  a 
less  used  thoroughfare.  "Where  are  you  going?"  she 
cried.  "You've  left  the  road!" 

Big  Aleck  laughed  uproariously  after  his  fashion. 
"I  should  say  we  have,"  said  he.  "But  any  road^s 
good  enough  just  so  it  gets  us  up  to  our  jungle.  You 
don't  know  what  iss  a  jungle?  Well,  it's  where  the 
sabcat  brothers  meets  all  by  theirselves  on  the  Re 
serve." 

"Reserve?"  asked  Mary  Warren.  "What  do  you 
mean?" 

"Where  the  timber  is  that  them  army  scum  is  cut 
ting  for  the  Government.  Pine,  some  spruce.  This 
road  was  made  to  get  timber  out.  I  ought  to  know 
about  it — I  was  foreman  of  the  road  gang!  I  know 
every  tree  that's  marked  for  the  Government.  My 
old  bunch  of  bundle  stiffs  and  before-the-war  wob- 
blies  is  in  there  now.  What  chance  has  them  Gov 
ernment  cockroaches  got  against  my  bullies  ?  Wait  till 
the  wheat  clocks  1  get  started  and  the  clothes  2  begins. 

1  Wheat  clocks:  Phosphorus  bombs  left  in  wheat  or  haystacks 
and  fired  by  the  sun. 

1  Clothes :  Argot  terms  for  phosphorus,  cyanide  and  other 
chemicals  used  in  destruction  of  property  or  life. 

IO7 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

We  ain't  forgot  what  we  knew  when  they  tried  to 
draft  us.  We're  free  men  now,  same  as  in  Russia  and 
Germany." 

He  laughed  again  and  again  at  the  vast  humor  of 
this  situation  as  it  lay  before  him,  exulting  in  the 
mystification  his  thieves'  jargon  would  create.  His 
liquor  made  him  reckless. 

"It's  a  rough  road,  up  Tepee  Creek,"  said  he,  "but 
nobody  comes.  This  is  a  Government  car — the  Cos 
sacks  would  think  I'm  going  up  to  work.  They  got 
to  mark  some  trees.  I'll  mark  'em — so  they  can  tell, 
when  they  come  to  saw  'em,  heh  ?" 

He  said  little  more,  but  one  hand  cast  over  her 
shoulder  was  his  answer  to  her  panting  silence,  every 
time  she  edged  over  in  the  impulse  to  fling  herself 
out  of  the  car.  He  was  a  man  of  enormous  strength. 

Continually  the  jolting  of  the  car  grew  worse  and 
worse.  She  began  to  hear  the  rush  of  water.  Twice 
she  felt  the  logs  of  a  rude  bridge  under  the  wheels  as 
they  crossed  some  stream.  They  were  winding  their 
way  up  the  valley  of  a  stream,  into  a  higher  country? 
Yes.  As  they  climbed  now,  she  could  catch  the  scent 
of  the  forest  as  the  wind  changed  from  time  to  time. 
The  profanity  of  her  captor  grew  as  the  difficulty  of 
the  trail  increased.  They  were  climbing  at  a  gradient 
as  steep  as  the  laboring  car  could  negotiate. 

At  last,  after  interminable  time,  they  seemed  to 
strike  a  sandier  soil,  more  level  country — indeed,  the 
trail  was  following  the  contour  of  a  high  sandy  ridge 
among  the  pines. 

108 


THE  SABCAT  CAMP 

On  ahead  she  heard  a  shout.  "Halt!  Stop  there! 
Who  are  you?" 

"Don't  shoot,  John,"  replied  the  driver  of  the  car, 
laughing.  "It's  Aleck." 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned !"  was  the  reply.  "Time  you 
was  back,  Aleck.  Who's  that  with  you?" 

"That's  a  friend  of  mine  I  brought  along!  She's 
come  up  to  see  how  us  wobblies  lives!" 

Again  his  coarse  laugh,  which  made  her  shudder. 
Then  more  broken  laughs,  whispered  words.  She  was 
obliged  to  take  the  arm  of  her  rough  captor  to  descend 
from  the  car. 

"She  don't  see  very  well,"  said  Aleck  in  explana 
tion.  "Maybe  just  as  well  she  don't,  heh?" 

She  stood  looking  about  her  vaguely,  helpless. 
She  could  hear  the  high  moaning  of  the  wind  above 
her,  in  the  tops  of  pine  trees.  Some  one  led  her  to 
the  front  of  a  tent — she  could  hear  the  flapping  of  the 
fly  in  the  wind.  She  sank  down  by  chance  upon  a 
blanket  roll.  Her  captor  threw  down  the  front  flap 
of  the  tent.  She  heard  voices  of  other  men.  They 
paid  not  too  much  attention  to  her  at  first.  Big 
Aleck,  their  leader,  went  on  with  hurried  orders. 

"We  got  to  get  out  of  here  in  not  more'n  an  hour 
or  so,"  said  he.  "The  Johns'll  come.  I  fixed  a 
couple  dozen  stacks  of  hay  for  them." 

"See  anybody  down  below,  Aleck?"  asked  a  voice 
which  Mary  Warren  recognized  as  different  from  the 
others  she  had  heard.  And  then  some  low  question 
was  asked,  to  which  Big  Aleck  replied. 

109 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Well,  I'll  take  her  along  with  me,  when  I  go  out, 
far  as  that's  concerned,"  said  he.  "She  says  she's 
Sim  Gage's  housekeeper !  Huh !" 

"But  suppose  she  gets  away  and  squeals  on  us?" 
spoke  a  voice. 

"She  can't  get  away.    Let's  go  eat." 

She  was  dose  enough  to  where  they  sat  eating  and 
drinking  to  hear  all  that  was  said,  and  they  spoke  with 
utter  disregard  of  her  presence.  She  never  had  heard 
such  language  in  her  life,  nor  known  that  such  men 
lived.  Never  yet  had  she  so  fully  taken  home  to  her 
self  the  actual  presence  of  a  Government,  of  a  coun 
try,  never  before  known  what  threats  against  that 
country  actually  might  mean.  An  enemy?  Why, 
here  was  the  enemy  still,  entrenched  inside  the  lines 
of  victorious  and  peace-abiding  America — trusting, 
foolish,  blind  America,  which  had  accepted  anything 
a  human  riff-raff  sneeringly  and  cynically  had  offered 
her  in  return  for  her  own  rich  generosity !  Mary  War 
ren  began  to  see,  suddenly,  the  tremendous  burden 
of  duty  laid  on  every  man  and  every  woman  of  Amer 
ica — the  lasting  and  enduring  and  continuous  duty 
of  a  post-bellum  patriotism,  that  new  and  terrible 
thing ;  that  sweet  and  splendid  thing  which  alone  could 
safeguard  the  country  that  had  fought  for  liberty  so 
splendidly,  so  unselfishly. 

"If  they  ever  run  across  us  in  here  with  the  goods 
on  us — good-night!"  hesitated  a  voice.  "I  don't  like 
to  carry  this  here  cyanide — we  got  enough  for  all  the 
sheep  and  cattle  in  Montana." 

no 


THE  SABCAT  CAMP 

"Our  lawyers'll  take  care  of  us  if  we  get  arrested," 
said  Big  Aleck  indifferently. 

"Yes,  but  we  mightn't  get  arrested — these  here 
ranch  Johns  is  handy  with  rope  and  lead." 

"Ach,  no  danger,"  argued  Aleck.  "It's  safer  than 
to  blow  up  a  armory  or  a  powder  mill,  or  even  a  pub 
lic  building — and  we  done  all  that,  while  the  war  was 
on.  We'll  give  'em  Force !  This  Republic  be  damned 
• — there  is  no  republic  but  the  republic  of  Man!" 

These  familiar  doctrines  seemed  to  excite  the  ap 
plause  usual  among  hearers  of  this  sort.  There  was 
a  chorus  of  approval,  so  that  their  orator  went  on, 
much  inspired. 

"People  in  Gallatin  offered  a  thousand  dollars  for 
one  man  catched  putting  matches  in  a  threshing  ma 
chine.  Other  ranchers  was  willing  to  give  a  thousand 
if  they  found  out  what  made  their  hay  get  a-fire! 
Hah !  They  don't  know  how  we  set  a  bomb  so  the 
sun'll  start  it!  They  don't  think  that  the  very  fellers 
running  the  threshing  machine  is  the  ones  that  drops 
the  matches  in!  They  don't  think  that  the  man  run 
ning  the  mowing  machine  is  the  one  that  fixes  the 
sickle  bar!  They  don't  think  that  the  man  in  charge 
of  this  here  road  gang  is  the  one  that's  a-doctoring 
trees ! 

"They're  still  eating  all  sorts  of  things  for  bread 
now,"  he  resumed.  "Folks  in  the  cities  pays  more  and 
more.  Wheat'll  go  to  four  dollars  before  we're 
through.  We're  the  farmer's  friends,  huh?  Hay'll 
be  worth  fifty  dollars  a  ton  in  this  valley  before  we're 

in 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

through — but  there  won't  be  no  horses  left  to  haul 
it  to  town!  There's  thousands  of  right  boes  all  across 
the  country  now.  If  fourteen  thousand  iron  and  steel 
people  was  out  at  one  time  in  Cleveland,  what  couldn't 
we  do,  if  we  once  got  a  good  strike  started  all  across 
the  country,  now  the  war  is  done?  We've  made  'em 
raise  wages  time  and  again,  haven't  we?  I  tell  you, 
freedom's  coming  to  its  own." 

Cleveland !  Mary  Warren  pricked  up  her  ears.  She 
had  reason;  for  now  the  voice  went  on,  mentioning 
a  name  which  Annie  Squires  had  made  familiar — 
Dorenwald,  Charlie  Dorenwald,  the  foreman  in  the 
rolling  rooms! 

"Charlie  Dorenwald's  the  head  of  that  bunch.  He's 
a  good  man.  You  know  what  he  pulled  in  Youngs- 
town." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  one  voice,  "they  lynched 
a  man  in  Illinois.  America's  getting  lawless!  Think 
about  lynching  people!  It  ain't  right!" 

"There's  nothing  they  won't  do,"  said  Big  Aleck's 
voice,  virtuously.  "They  ask  us  we  shall  have  respect 
for  a  Government  that  lets  people  lynch  folks !" 

"You  didn't  see  any  one  when  you  was  down  in  the 
road,  Aleck?"  asked  some  one  again,  uneasily. 

"I  told  you,  no.    Well,  we  got  to  get  to  work." 

Mary  Warren  heard  them  rising  from  their  places. 
Footfalls  passed  here  and  there,  shuffling.  The  wo 
man  could  not  repress  her  shuddering.  This  was 
Force — unrestrained,  ignorant,  unleashed,  brute  Force, 
that  same  aftermath  Force  which  was  rending  apart 

112 


THE  SABCAT  CAMP 

the  world  back  of  the  new-dried  battlefields  of 
Europe!  Order  and  law,  comfort,  love,  affection, 
trust — all  these  things  were  gone! 

What  then  was  her  footing  here — a  woman?  Was 
God  indeed  asleep?  She  heard  her  own  soul  begging 
for  alleviating  death. 

Then  came  silence,  except  for  the  airs  high  up  in 
the  sobbing  trees.  They  were  gone  on  their  errand. 
After  that, — what? 

After  a  time  she  heard  a  sound  of  dread — the  slid- 
dering  of  a  footfall  in  the  sand.  She  recognized  the 
heavy,  dragging  stride  of  the  man  who  had  brought 
her  here.  He  had  come  back — alone. 

Terror  seized  her,  keen  and  clarifying  terror.  She 
screamed,  again  and  again,  called  aloud  the  only  name 
that  came  to  her  mind. 

"Sim!"  she  cried  aloud  again  and  again — "Sim! 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  MAN   TRAIL 

HAT  do  you  think  of  him,  Wid?"  asked 
Sim  Gage  after  a  time,  when  they  were 
well    on    their    way    homeward    in    the 
late  afternoon. 

"Looks  like  a  good  doctor,  all  right,"  replied  Wid. 
"Clean-cut  and  strictly  on  to  his  game.  I  reckon  he 
got  plenty  practice  in  the  war.  I'm  sorry  neither  of 
us  was  young  enough  to  git  into  that  war.  Your 
leg  hurt  much  now?" 

"Say  yes!"  replied  Sim.  "You  know,  I  reckon  we 
didn't  get  there  any  too  soon  with  that  leg.  Fine  lot 
of  us,  up  to  my  house,  huh?  Me  laid  up,  and  her 
can't  see  a  wink  on  earth." 

"And  yet  you  said  I  couldn't  come  over  and  see  her. 
So  there  you  are,  both  alone." 

"Well,  it's  this  way,  Wid,  and  you  know  it,"  insisted 
his  friend.  "The  girl  is  right  strange  there  yet — it's 
a  plumb  hard  thing  to  figure  out.  We  got  to  get  her 
gentled  down  some.  There's  been  a  hell  of  a  misun 
derstanding  all  around,  Wid,  we  got  to  admit  that. 
And  we're  all  to  blame  for  it." 

"Well,  she's  to  blame  too,  ain't  she?" 
114 


"No,  she  ain't!  I  won't  let  no  man  say  that.  She's 
just  done  the  best  she  knew  how.  Women  sometimes 
don't  know  which  way  to  jump." 

"She  didn't  make  none  too  good  a  jump  out  here/' 
commented  his  friend.  "Has  she  ever  told  you  any 
thing  about  herself  yet?" 

"Not  to  speak  of  none,  no.  She  sets  and  cries  a 
good  deal.  Says  she's  broke  and  blind  and  all  alone. 
She's  got  one  friend  back  home — girl  she  used  to  room 
with,  but  she's  going  to  get  married,  and  so  she,  this 
lady,  Miss  Warren,  comes  out  here  plumb  desperate, 
not  knowing  what  kind  of  a  feller  I  am,  or  what  kind 
of  a  place  this  is — which  is  both  a  damn  shame,  Wid, 
and  you  know  it.  I  say  I'm  up  against  it  right  now." 

"The  real  question,  Sim,  is  what  are  folks  going 
to  say?  There's  people  in  this  valley  that  ain't  a-going 
to  stand  it  for  you  and  that  girl  to  live  there  unless 
you're  married.  You  know  that." 

"Of  course  I  know  that.  But  do  you  suppose  I'd 
marry  that  girl  even  if  she  was  willing?  No,  sir,  I 
wouldn't — not  a-tall.  It  wouldn't  be  right." 

"Now  listen,  Sim.  Leave  it  to  me.  I'd  say  that 
if  you  ever  do  want  to  get  married,  Sim — and  you 
got  to  if  she  stays  here — why,  here's  the  one  and  only 
chancet  of  your  whole  life.  Of  course,  if  the  girl 
wasn't  blind,  she  wouldn't  never  marry  you.  I  don't 
believe  any  woman  would,  real.  The  way  she  is,  and 
can't  see,  maybe  she  will,  after  a  while,  like,  when 
she's  gentled  down,  as  you  say.  It  looks  like  a  act  of 
Providence  to  me." 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Well,"  said  Sim,  pondering,  "I  hadn't  just  thought 
of  it  that  way.  Do  you  believe  in  them  things — acts 
of  Providence?" 

"I  don't  believe  in  nothing  much  except  we're  going 
to  get  into  camp  mighty  late  to-night.  It's  getting 
sundown,  and  I  ain't  keen  to  cut  wood  in  the  dark." 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Wid,"  said  Sim  suddenly  relent 
ing.  "You  come  on  down  to  our  house  to-night  I'll 
introduce  you  to  her  after  all — Miss  Warren.  It 
ain't  no  more'n  fair,  after  all." 

Wid  only  nodded.  They  pushed  along  up  the  road 
until  finally  they  arrived,  within  a  few  miles  of  their 
own  homesteads,  at  the  little  roadside  store  and  post- 
office  kept  by  old  Pop  Bentley.  They  would  have 
pulled  up  here,  but  as  they  approached  the  dusty  figure 
of  the  mail  carrier  of  that  route  came  out,  and  held 
up  a  hand. 

"Hold  on,  Sim,"  said  he.  "I  heard  at  Nels  Jen 
sen's  place  that  you  had  gone  down  the  river.  Well, 
it's  time  you  was  gettin'  back." 

Sim  Gage  smiled  with  a  sense  of  his  own  impor 
tance  as  he  took  the  letter,  turning  it  over  in  his  hand. 
"What's  it  say,  Wid?"  said  he. 

His  neighbor  looked  at  the  inscription.  "It's  for 
her,"  said  he.  "Miss  Mary  Warren,  in  care  of  Sim 
Gage,  Two  Forks,  Montany." 

"Who's  it  from?"  said  Sim.  "Here's  some  writ 
ing  on  the  back." 

"From  Annie  B.  Squires,  9527  Oakford  Avenue, 

Cleveland,  Ohio.     But  listen " 

116 


THE  MAN  TRAIL 

"That's  the  girl  that  Miss  Warren  told  me  about !" 
said  Sim.  "That's  a  letter  from  her.  I'd  better  be 
getting  back." 

"I  just  told  you  you  had,"  said  the  mail  driver, 
something  of  pity  in  his  tone.  "I'm  trying  to  tell  you 
why  you  had.  Why  I  brought  this  letter  down  is,  you 
ain't  got  no  place  to  get  back  to." 

"What  you  mean?"  said  Wid  Gardner  suddenly. 

"Hell's  loose  in  this  valley  to-day,"  said  the  mail 
carrier.  "Five  fires,  when  I  come  through  before 
noon.  Wid,  your  house  is  gone,  and  your  barn,  too. 
Sim,  somebody's  burned  your  hay  and  your  barn, 
and  shot  your  stock,  and  set  your  house  afire — it 
would  of  burned  plumb  down  if  Nels  Jensen  hadn't 
got  there  just  in  time.  They  saved  the  house.  It 
wasn't  burned  very  much  anyways,  so  Nels  told  me." 

Sim  Gage  and  his  companion,  stupefied,  sat  look 
ing  at  the  bearer  of  this  news. 

"Who  done  it?"  asked  Wid  Gardner  grimly  after 
a  time.  "That  ain't  no  accident." 

"Pop  Bentley  in  here  said  Big  Aleck,  the  squatter, 
come  up  the  valley  this  morning  right  early " 

"That  hellion!"  exclaimed  Sim.  "He's  always 
made  trouble  in  this  valley.  We  seen  him  down  be 
low  here,  driving  a  broad-tire  wagon." 

"Yes,  a  Company  wagon,  and  a  Company  team. 
We  found  that  wagon  hitched  above  your  lane,  Sim. 
Your  mail  box  was  busted  down.  There  wasn't  no 
Big  Aleck  around,  nor  no  one  else." 

"Not  no  one  else? — No  one  in  the  house?" 
117 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Nels  said  there  wasn't." 

"Light  down,  Sim,"  said  Wid.  "Let's  go  in  and 
talk  to  Pop  Bentley." 

Pop  Bentley,  the  keeper  of  the  meager  grocery 
store  and  little-used  post-office,  met  them  with  grav 
ity  on  his  whiskered  face.  He  was  a  tall  and  thin 
man,  much  stooped,  who>  as  far  as  the  memory  of  man, 
had  always  lived  here  in  Two-Forks  Valley. 

"Well,  you  heard  the  news,  I  reckon,"  said  he  to 
his  neighbors.  Both  men  nodded. 

"Big  Aleck  toM  me  he  was  working  on  the  Gov 
ernment  job.  He  said  he  was  going  on  up  with  his 
team  to  help  finish  some  roads." 

"Well,  if  it  was  him,"  said  Wid  Gardner,  "or  any 
,  one  else,  we're  a-goin'  to  find  out  who  it  was  done  this. 
We  been  hearing  a  long  while  about  the  free  Indus 
trials,  whatever  the  damned  Bolsheviks  call  their- 
selves.  They  wander  around  now  and  won't  settle. 
Hobos,  I  call  them,  no  more,  but  crazy  ones.  They 
threatened  to  burn  all  the  hay  in  the  settlements  be 
low,  and  to  wipe  out  all  the  wheat  crop.  Why?  They 
been  busting  up  threshing  machines  acrosst  the  range 
— the  paper's  been  full  of  it.  Why?  They've  got 
in  here,  and  that's  all  about  it.  Well,  fellers,  you 
reckon  we're  goin'  to  stand  fer  this  sort  of  Bolshevik 
business  on  the  Two-Forks?" 

"I  say,  Pop,"  broke  in  Sim  Gage  to  the  postmaster, 
with  singular  irrelevance  at  this  time,  "haven't  you 
got  a  litter  of  pups  around  here  somewheres,  and  a 

118 


THE  MAN  TRAIL 

couple  hens  I  can  buy?  I'm  lookin'  fer  a  dog,  and 
things." 

"Yard's  full  of  pups,  man.  If  you  want  one  help 
yourself.  But  hens,  now " 

"Sell  me  two  or  three  hens  and  a  rooster  or  so. 
I  promised  I'd  take  'em  home,  and  I  plumb  forgot." 

Pop  Bentley  threw  up  his  hands  at  his  feckless 
neighbor.  "You'd  better  be  getting  a  place  fer  your 
hens  and  dogs,  seems  like." 

Sim  put  a  forefinger  to  his  puckered  lip.  "I  don't 
know  as  I  want  to  take  more'n  about  one  pup  now,  and 
three  or  four  hens.  I'll  fix  up  the  price  with  you  some 
time.  Yes,  I  got  to  be  getting  home  now." 

The  mail  carrier,  the  postmaster  and  Sim's  friend 
looked  at  one  another  as  these  details  went  forward. 

"Well,"  said  Pop  Bentley,  shrugging  his  bent  shoul 
ders,  "if  you  would  go  away  and  leave  a  woman  alone 
in  a  place  like  that " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Sim  Gage  suddenly. 

"WThy,  that  woman  ain't  there  no  more,  you  fool. 
She's  gone!" 

"Gone?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"Whoever  set  fire  to  your  place  took  her  away,  or 
else  she's  got  lost  somewheres.' 

"Gone?"  said  Sim  Gage.  "Blind!  You,  Wid!"— 
he  turned  upon  his  friend  half-savagely — "you  was 
talking  to  me  about  acts  of  Providence.  There  ain't 
no  such  thing  as  Providence  if  this  here's  true.  Come 
on — I  got  to  get  home." 

They  did  start  home,  at  a  gallop,  Sim  half  uncon- 
119 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

fcious  of  what  he  did,  carrying  in  his  arm  an  excited 
puppy,  impetuously  licking  his  new  master's  hands 
and  face.  In  the  bottom  of  the  wagon  lay  a  disre 
garded  sack  with  a  half-dozen  fowl,  their  heads  pro 
truding  through  holes  cut  for  that  purpose.  Sim 
never  knew  how  or  when  they  got  into  the  wagon. 

At  the  next  gate,  that  of  Nels  Jensen's  homestead, 
Sim's  neighbor  below,  the  woman  of  the  place  came 
running.  "You  heard  about  it? — You're  all  burned 
out,  both  of  you/' 

"Yes,  we  know,"  said  Wid,  nodding.  "Tell  Nels 
to  come  on  up  to  Sim's  place  early  in  the  morning. 
We're  going  to  get  the  neighbors  together."  Again 
the  tired  team  was  forced  into  a  dull  gallop. 

They  had  not  far  to  go.  A  turn  of  the  road  freed 
them  of  the  screen  of  willows.  There  lay  before 
them  in  the  evening  light,  long  prolonged  at  this  sea 
son  in  that  latitude,  that  portion  of  the  valley  which 
these  two  neighbors  owned.  For  a  moment  they  sat 
silent. 

"Mine's  gone,"  said  Wid  succinctly.  "Not  a  thing 
left." 

Sim  sat  clasping  the  puppy  in  his  arms  as  he  turned 
to  look  at  his  own  Homestead. 

"Mine's  gone  too,"  said  he.  "Barn's  burned,  and 
all  the  hay.  House  is  there,  anyhow.  Lemme  out, 
Wid." 

"No,  hold  on,"  said  his  neighbor.  "There's  no 
hurry  for  me  to  go  home,  now  that's  sure.  Your  leg's 
bad,  Sim.  I'll  take  you  down." 

1 20 


THE  MAN  TRAIL 

So  they  drove  down  Sim  Gage's  lane  between  the 
wire  fence  and  the  willows.  Sim  was  looking  eagerly 
ahead.  Continually  he  moaned  to  himself  low,  as  if 
in  pain.  But  the  hard-faced  man  on  the  seat  beside 
him  knew  it  was  not  in  physical  pain. 

They  fastened  the  team  and  hurried  on  about, 
searching  the  premises.  The  barn  was  gone,  and  the 
hay.  Two  or  three  head  of  slaughtered  stock  lay  par 
tially  consumed,  close  to  the  hay  stack.  The  house 
still  stood,  for  the  dirt  roof  had  stopped  the  flames 
which  were  struggling  up  from  the  door  frame  along 
the  heavy  logs. 

"The  damn,  murdering  thieves,"  said  Wid  Gardner. 
"Look,  Sim — your  horse  and  mule  was  both  killed 
in  there."  He  pointed  to  the  burned  barn.  "What 
made  them?  What  do  they  gain  by  this?  I  know!" 

But  Sim  Gage  was  hobbling  to  his  half-burnt  home. 
Gasping,  he  looked  in.  It  was  empty ! 

"Where's  she  gone,  Wid?"  said  he,  when  he  could 
speak.  "You  reckon  Big  Aleck — ?  No.  No!" 

"Nothing's  too  low  down  for  him,"  said  Wid  Gard 
ner. 

There  were  footprints  in  the  path  where  the  neigh 
bors  had  stood,  but  Sim's  eye  caught  others  not  tram 
pled  out,  in  the  strip  of  sand  toward  the  willows — two 
footprints,  large,  and  beside  them  two  others,  small. 
The  two,  old  big-game  hunters  as  they  were,  began 
to  puzzle  out  this  double  trail. 

"He  was  a-leading  her  out  this  way,  Sim,"  said 
Wid,  pointing.  "Look  a-yonder,  where  we  come  in 

121 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

—them  wheel  tracks  wasn't  yours  nor  mine.  Now, 
look-a-here,  in  this  little  open  place  where  the  ants 
has  ate  it  clean — here's  her  footprints,  right  here.  No 
use  to  hunt  the  creek  or  the  willers,  Sim — she's  went 
off  in  a  wagon." 

"He  took  my  six-shooter,"  said  Sim,  who  had  hur 
riedly  examined  the  interior  of  his  home.  "Nothing 
else  is  gone.  Wait  while  I  go  git  my  rifle.  It's  in  the 
tent." 

When  he  had  returned  with  rifle  and  belt,  Wid 
turned  towards  him.  "I'll  tell  you,  Sim,"  said  he, 
"we'll  run  over  to  my  place  and  look  around,  and  come 
back  here  and  eat  before  it  get's  plumb  dark.  I'll 
saddle  up  and  pass  the  word." 

They  climbed  back  into  the  wagon  seat  and  once 
more  passed  out  along  Sim  Gage's  little  lane.  At  the 
end,  where  it  joined  the  main  road,  Wid  pulled  up. 

"Look  yonder,  Sim !"  said  he.  "There's  where  that 
broad-tire  wagon  was  tied." 

"The  road's  full  of  all  sorts  of  tracks,"  said  Sim, 
looking  down,  rifle  in  hand,  from  his  seat.  He  car 
ried  the  puppy  again  in  his  arms,  and  the  hens  still 
were  expostulating  in  the  bottom  of  the  wagon.  "Is 
them  car  tracks?" 

"A  car  could  be  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  away  by 
now,"  said  Wid. 

They  passed  on  to  Wid  Gardner's  gate.  It  was 
wide  open.  There  were  wheel  tracks  there,  also,  of 
some  sort 

The  ruin  of  this  homestead  also  was  complete.    The 

122 


THE  MAN  TRAIL 

last  stack  of  hay,  the  barn,  house,  all,  were  burned 
to  the  ground. 

"Well,  that's  all  I  want  here,"  said  Wid,  sigh 
ing.  "We'll  stop  at  your  place  for  a  spell,  Sim — 
that's  the  best  thing  we  can  do." 

"But  look  here !"  he  went  on,  his  eyes  running  along 
the  ground.  "Been  a  car  in  here — this  wasn't  a  wagon 
— it  was  a  car!  There  must  of  been  more'n  one  of 
'em." 

"Uh  huh,"  said  Sim,  climbing  down  stiffly  from  the 
wagon  seat  now  and  joining  him  in  the  task  of  puz 
zling  out  the  trail.  They  followed  it  to  a  place  where 
some  ashes  had  been  trodden  in  the  yard.  Here  the 
wheels  of  the  car  had  left  their  clearest  record. 

"Not  a  big  one,"  said  Wid.  "Ragged  tire  on  the 
nigh  hind  wheel.  See  this?" 

They  ran  the  trail  on  out  to  the  gate,  picking  it  up 
here  and  there,  catching  it  plain  in  the  loose  sand 
which  covered  the  gravel  road  bed. 

"Whoever  done  the  work  at  my  place,"  said  Sim, 
"was  drunk.  Look  how  he  busted  down  my  mail 
box." 

"Look  how  this  car  was  running  here,"  assented 
Wid.  "You  set  here  by  the  gate,  Sim,  and  hold  the 
team.  I  want  to  run  up  the  road  a  piece  to  where  the 
timber  trail  turns  up  the  canyon." 

"Sure,  Wid,"  said  Sim.    "I  can't  walk  good." 

It  was  half  an  hour  or  more  before  his  friend  had 
returned  from  his  hasty  scout  further  along  the  road, 
and  by  that  time  it  was  dark. 

123 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"That's  where  they  went,  Sim,"  said  Wid  Gardner. 
"I  seen  the  track  of  that  busted  tire  plain  in  the  half- 
dried  mud,  little  ways  up  the  trail.  Whoever  it  was 
done  this,  has  went  right  up  there.  When  we  get  a 
few  of  the  fellers  together  we'll  start.  To-morrow 
morning,  early." 

"To-morrow!"  said  Sim.    "Why,  Wid " 

Wid  Gardner  laid  a  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder. 
"It's  the  best  we  can  do,  Sim,"  said  he. 

Without  more  speech  they  drove  once  more  along 
Sim  Gage's  lane.  As  they  approached  the  entrance, 
Sim  turned.  "Hold  up  a  minute,  Wid,"  said  he,  "while 
I  look  over  here  where  the  wagon  was  tied." 

He  limped  across  the  road,  bent  to  examine  the 
marks  dimly  visible  in  the  half  darkness. 

"Look-a-here,"  said  he,  "there's  been  a  car  here  too 
— the  same  car,  with  the  busted  tire!  They  come  up 
in  that  wagon  from  my  place  after  they  burned  me 
out.  They  must  of  taken  her  out  of  the  wagon  and 
put  her  in  the  car,  and  like  you  say,  they're  maybe 
a  couple  of  hundred  miles  away  by  now.  Oh,  my 
God  A'mighty,  Wid,  what  has  you  and  me  done  to 
that  pore  girl !" 

Wid  only  laid  the  large  hand  again  on  his  shoul 
der.  "It'll  be  squared,"  said  he. 

Their  rude  meal  was  prepared  in  silence,  and  eaten 
in  silence.  Sim  Gage  felt  in  his  pocket,  and  drawing 
out  the  letter  he  had  received,  smoothed  out  the  en 
velope  on  the  table  top. 

124 


THE  MAN  TRAIL 

"It's  addressed  to  her,  Wid,"  said  he  after  a  time, 
"and  she  ain't  here." 

"I  don't  see  why  we  oughtn't  to  open  it  and  read 
it,"  said  Wid.  "Some  one'd  have  to  anyhow,  if  she 
was  here,  for  she  couldn't  read,  herself." 

Sim,  by  means  of  a  table  knife,  opened  the  envelope. 

"You  read  it,  Wid,"  said  he.  "You  can  read  bet- 
ter'n  I  can."  And  so  Wid  accepted  Sim's  conven 
tional  fiction,  knowing  he  could  neither  read  nor  write. 

"Dear  Mary,"  said  Anne's  letter,  "I  got  to  write  to 
you.  I  wisht  you  hadn't  went  away  when  you  did  and 
how  you  did,  for,  Mary,  I  feel  so  much  alone. 

'You  know  when  you  started  out  I  was  joking  you 
about  Charlie  Dorenwald.  I  told  you,  even  if  you  did 
have  an  inside  chance  you  maybe  might  not  be  married 
any  sooner  than  I  was.  That  was  just  a  little  while  ago. 
So  far  as  it's  all  concerned  you  can  come  right  on  back. 
There's  nothing  doing  now  between  Charlie  and  I. 

"You  know  he  was  foreman  in  the  factory.  He 
ought  to  of  had  money  laid  up  but  he  didn't.  On  In 
stallments  I'd  soon  have  got  a  place  fixed  up,  though 
Charlie  and  me  was  going  to  fix  it  up  on  Installments. 
But  I  got  to  talking  with  him,  right  away  after  you  had 
left,  it  was  all  about  the  war  and  I  said  to  him,  'Charlie, 
why  didn't  you  go  over  ?'  He  says  one  thing  and  he  says 
another.  Well  you  know  that  sort  of  got  me  started 
and  at  last  we  had  it,  and  do  you  know  when  he  got 
rattled  he  began  to  talk  Dutch  to  me?  Well,  I  talked 
turkey  to  him.  One  thing  and  another  went  on  and 
Churlie  and  me  we  split  up  right  there. 

'  T  couldn't  join  the  army  noways,'  he  says,  'they 
wo^dn't  take  me.  I  had  flat  feet.' 

You  got  a  flat  tire,  that's  what  ails  you,'  I  says  to 

125 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

him.  'Well  now  I  wouldn't  marry  you  at  all,  not  if 
you  was  the  last  man,  which  you  look  to  me  like  you 
was.' 

"Well,  the  way  he  talked,  Mary,  I  wouldn't  be  sur 
prised  if  he  was  married  already  anyhow.  One  of  the 
girls  said  he'd  been  living  with  another  woman  not 
four  blocks  off.  He  ain't  hurt  none  and  I  don't  know 
as  I  am  neither  although  of  course  a  girl  feels  morti 
fied  that  people  think  she's  going  to  get  married  and 
then  she  ain't. 

"But  I'm  thinking  of  you.  I've  gone  back  in  our  old 
room  where  it's  cheaper  and  let  them  take  back  the 
Installment  furniture.  I  ain't  got  a  thing  to  do  after 
hours  except  read  the  papers.  The  country's  all  stirred 
up.  But  anyhow  I'm  rid  of  my  Dutch  patriot  That's 
why  I'm  writing  to  you  now. 

"I  wonder  what  you're  doing  out  there.  Are  you 
married  yet?  What  did  he  look  like,  Mary?  I  know 
he's  a  good  man  after  all,  kind  and  chivalrous  like  he 
said.  If  he  wasn't  you'd  be  wiring  me  telling  me  when 
you  was  coming  home.  I  guess  you're  too  happy  to 
write  to  anybody  like  me.  You'll  have  a  Home  of  your 
own. 

"And  all  the  time  I  thought  I  was  stronger  than  you 
was  and  abler  to  get  on  and  here  you  are  married  and 
happy  and  me  back  in  the  old  room!  But  don't  worry 
none  about  me — I'll  get  another  job.  The  most  is  I 
miss  you  so  much  and  you  haven't  wrote  me  a  word  I 
suppose.  When  a  girl  gets  married  all  the  girls  is  crazy 
to  hear  all  about  her  and  her  husband  and  I  haven't 
heard  a  word  from  you. 

"Respectfully  your  friend, 

"Annie  Squires." 

The  two  men  sat  for  a  time.  Wid  reached  in  his 
pocket  for  his  pipe. 

126 


THE  MAN  TRAIL 

"By  God!  she  come  out  here  maybe  to  get  mar 
ried,  on  the  level  and  honest,  after  a  while!"  said  he. 
"She'll  have  to,  now!" 

"That's  what  I  was  thinking,  Wid,"  said  Sim  Gage. 
"It's — it's  chivalerous.  We  got  to  find  her,  now." 


THE  SPECIES 

"WTITTELL,  pretty  one,  you  got  lonesome  here 
\\  all  by  yourself?  So  you  holler  for  'Sim! 
Sim !' '  Big  Aleck's  voice  was  close  to 
her  as  she  sat  in  the  tent. 

Mary  Warren  felt  about  her,  back  of  her  on  the 
blankets,  stealthily  seeking  some  weapon  of  defense. 
She  paused.  Under  her  ringers  was  something  which 
felt  like  leather.  She  made  no  sudden  movement,  but 
temporized. 

"How  could  I  help  it  ?"  she  asked. 

Always  her  hand  was  feeling  behind  her  on  the 
blankets.  Yes,  there  was  a  holster.  It  felt  familiar 
— it  might  be  Sim  Gage's  gun,  taken  from  her  at  the 
house.  She  waited. 

"Well,  that's  too  bad  you  can't  see,"  said  Aleck. 
"You  can't  see  what  a  fine  feller  I'd  make  for  you! 
I'm  chief.  I'm  a  big  man." 

"You're  a  big  coward,"  said  Mary  Warren  calmly. 
"What's  a  blind  woman  to  you?  Why  don't  you  let 
me  go  ?" 

"Well,  even  a  blind  woman  can  tell  what  she's 
heard,"  said  he  thoughtfully.  "And  then,"  his  coarse 

128 


THE  SPECIES 

voice  undertaking  a  softness  foreign  to  it,  "I'm  just 
as  tired  as  Sim  Gage  was  of  keeping  house  alone.  I'm 
a  better  man  than  Sim  Gage.  I'm  making  plenty  of 
money." 

She  made  no  reply,  leaned  back  upon  the  blanket 
roll. 

"Now,  then,  gal,  listen.  I  like  you.  You're  hand 
some — the  handsomest  gal  ever  come  in  this  valley. 
A  pretty  girl  as  you  shouldn't  stay  single,  and  as  good 
a  man  as  me  neither.  I  work  on  my  ranch,  but  I'm 
a  big  man,  miss.  I'm  a  thinker,  you  can  see  that. 
I'm  a  leader  of  the  laboring  men.  I  begun  with  noth 
ing;  and  look  at  me!" 

"Well,  look  at  you!"  She  taunted  him.  "What 
would  you  have  been  if  you  hadn't  come  to  America? 
You'd  be  shoveling  dirt  over  there  at  half  a  dollar  a 
day,  or  else  you'd  be  dead.  You  think  this  is  Rus 
sia  ?  You  call  this  Germany  ?" 

Pretending  to  rest  her  weight  on  her  arm  back  of 
her,  she  felt  the  touch  of  leather,  felt  the  stock  of 
the  pistol  in  the  holster. 

Her  tormentor  went  on.  "We  don't  need  no  army 
—we  free  men  can  fight  the  way  we  are.  We'll  spoil 
ten  million  feet  of  timber  in  here  before  we're 
through." 

"I  despise  you — I  hate  you!"  she  cried  suddenly, 
almost  forgetful  of  herself.  "Why  do  you  come  to 
this  country,  if  you  don't  like  it?  If  you  hate  Amer 
ica,  why  don't  you  go  back  to  your  own  country  and 

129 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

live  there  ?  You  ought  to  be  hung — I  hope  to  God  you 
will  be!" 

He  only  laughed.  'That's  fine  talk  for  you,  ain't 
it?  You'd  better  listen  to  what  I  tell  you."  He 
reached  out  a  hand  and  touched  her  arm. 

With  one  movement,  of  sheer  instinct,  with  a  pri 
mal  half-snarl,  she  swung  the  revolver  out  of  the 
scabbard  behind  her,  flung  it  almost  into  his  face.  He 
cowered,  but  not  soon  enough.  The  shot  struck  him. 
He  dropped,  tried  to  escape.  She  heard  him  scuf 
fling  on  the  sand,  fired  again  and  missed — fired  yet 
again  and  heard  him  cry  out,  gasping,  begging  for 
mercy. 

The  range  was  too  short  for  her  to  hear  the  impact 
of  the  bullets;  she  did  not  know  she  had  struck  him 
with  two  shots,  the  second  of  which  had  broken  his 
leg  and  left  him  disabled.  She  had  shot  a  man.  He 
was  there  in  front  of  her,  about  to  die. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  she  demanded,  staring,  the  re 
volver  in  both  her  hands.  "Keep  away.  I'll  kill  you!" 

"You — •--  Don't  shoot  again,"  he  cried,  as  she 
moved.  She  could  not  tell  what  he  meant,  what  really 
had  happened,  except  that  he  was  helpless.  She  rose 
and  fled,  groping,  stumbling,  falling.  She  could  hear 
him  crying  out.  He  did  not  follow  her. 

In  the  forest  growth  at  this  altitude  the  trees  stood 
large,  straight  and  tall,  not  very  close  together.  The 
earth  was  covered  with  a  dense  floor  of  pine  needles. 
As  she  ran  she  felt  her  feet  slipping,  sinking.  Now 
and  again  she  brought  up  against  a  tree.  Still  she 

130 


THE  SPECIES 

kept  on,  sobbing,  her  hands  outstretched,  getting  away 
farther  than  would  have  been  possible  in  denser  cover. 
She  felt  the  sand  of  the  roadway  under  her  feet  as 
her  course  curved  back  toward  the  road,  endeavored 
to  follow  the  trail  for  a  time,  but  found  herself  again 
on  the  pine  needles,  running  she  knew  not  where  or 
how.  She  had  no  hope.  She  knew  she  was  fleeing 
death  and  facing  death.  Very  well,  she  would  meet 
it  further  on  and  in  a  better  guise. 

She  felt  that  she  was  passing  down,  along  the  moun 
tain  side,  advanced  more  rapidly,  stumbling,  tripping 
— and  so  at  last  fell  full  length  over  a  log  which  lay 
across  her  course.  Stunned  by  the  impact  of  her  fall 
beyond  and  below  the  unseen  barrier,  she  lay  prone 
and  quite  unconscious. 

At  a  length  of  unknown  moments,  she  gained  her 
senses.  She  sat  up,  felt  about  her,  listened.  There 
was  no  sound  of  pursuit.  Only  the  high  wailing  of 
the  pines  came  to  her  ears. 

She  could  not  know  it,  but  the  men  were  not  fol 
lowing  her.  When  they  heard  the  sound  of  three 
shots  ring  out,  every  man  busy  in  his  work  of  sab 
otage  stopped  where  he  was.  Was  it  a  surprise? 
Were  officers  or  the  ranchers  coming?  They  scat 
tered,  hiding  among  the  trees. 

They  could  hear  the  bellowing  of  Big  Aleck,  be 
seeching  aid.  They  advanced  cautiously,  to  spy  out 
what  had  happened  and  saw  him  rolling  from  side  to 
side,  striving  to  rise,  falling  back.  The  woman  was 
nowhere  visible. 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Who  done  it,  Aleck?"  demanded  the  man  next  in 
command,  when  he  had  ventured  closer.  "Did  she 
shoot  you?" 

Aleck  groaned  as  he  rolled  over,  his  face  upward. 
A  nod  showed  his  crippled  shoulder.  His  other  hand 
Big  Aleck  feebly  placed  upon  his  hip.  They  bent  over 
him. 

"By  God,  she  got  you  fair  that  time !"  said  one  in 
vestigator.  "She's  plugged  you  twice.  She  wasn't 
blind.  Where  did  she  go?" 

"I  don't  know  where — I  heard  her  run.  God,  that 
leg !  What  will  I  do  ?  I  can't  stay  here  alone !" 

'I  tell  you,  you'll  have  to!  If  that  girl's  not  blind 
she'll  get  out  and  give  this  snap  away." 

"But  you  can  take  me  out  with  you,  fellers.  I 
can  ride."  Aleck  was  pleading,  his  face  gray  with 
pain. 

"Worst  thing  we  could  do,  either  for  you  or  for 
us,"  replied  the  other,  coldly.  "If  we  got  you  down 
to  the  settlements  what  could  we  say?  If  you  was 
shot  once  we  could  call  it  an  accident,  but  shot  twice, 
and  once  through  the  hip  from  behind — how  would 
that  be  explained,  I'd  like  to  know?  Folks  would  be 
gin  to  ask  too  many  questions.  Besides,  they'd  ask 
where  that  girl  was.  Then  there's  the  fires  you  set. 
No,  sir,  you  stay  right  here.  We  other  fellers'll  get 
out  of  here  as  fast  as  we  can." 

"And  leave  me  here?"  The  terror  in  Big  Aleck's 
voice  had  been  piteous  for  any  men  but  these. 

"Listen!  Before  midnight  I'll  be  at  the  Company 
132 


THE  SPECIES 

dam.  I'll  tell  that  new  doctor  there's  been  an  acci 
dent  up  here  in  the  timber  camp.  I'll  tell  him  to  come, 
up  here  to-morrow  morning  sure.  When  he  gets  here, 
you  tell  him  how  the  accident  happened.  It's  up  to 
you,  then.  You'll  have  to  pay  him  pretty  well,  of 
course." 

"And  that  reminds  me,"  he  went  on,  "we  fellers 
has  got  to  have  the  funds,  Aleck.  We'll  need  money 
more'n  you  will  now.  Here!" 

He  stooped  over  and  began  to  feel  in  Aleck's  coat, 
drew  out  a  heavy  wallet,  and  began  to  transfer  the 
bills  to  his  own  pocket. 

"I'll  leave  you  a  hundred  and  fifty.  That's  enough," 
said  he.  "No  telling  what  we  fellers'll  have  to  do  be 
fore  we  get  out  of  this.  Your  getting  shot  here  is  apt 
to  blow  the  whole  thing.  Did  she  take  the  gun  away 
with  her?" 

Aleck  groaned  and  rolled  his  head.  "I  don't  know," 
he  said. 

Jim  Denny  was  the  new  leader  of  the  brigand 
party.  ''Hell's  bells !"  said  he,  impatiently  now.  "We 
can't  be  fooling  around — this  don't  look  good  to  me. 
Noon  to-morrow,  anyways,  the  Doctor  ought  to  be 
here.  As  for  us,  we  got  to  beat  it  now." 

The  wolf  pack  knew  no  mercy  nor  unselfishness. 
Aleck  got  no  more  attention  from  them.  There  were 
two  cars  beside  the  one  which  had  brought  Aleck  and 
Mary  Warren  up  the  day  before.  This  last  one  they 
left,  seeing  that  the  tire  was  in  bad  condition.  Not 

133 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

one  of  them  turned  to  say  good-by  to  Aleck  as  he 
lay  in  the  tent  where  he  had  been  dragged. 

"Got  it  right  on  top  the  hip  bone,"  said  one  man. 
"She  busted  him  plenty  with  that  soft-nose." 

"And  'served  him  right,"  said  Jim  Denny,  the  new 
leader,  grumbling.  "Aleck  has  never  been  looking  for 
the  worst  of  it,  any  way  of  the  game.  If  he  had  left 
that  woman  down  below  where  she  belonged,  we 
wouldn't  be  in  this  fix.  I  tell  you  them  ranchers'll  be 
out  in  a  pack  after  us,  and  the  only  thing  we  can  do 
is  to  pull  our  freight  good  and  plenty  right  now." 

The  whir  of  the  engine  drowned  conversation.  An 
instant  later  the  two  carloads  of  banditti  were  pass 
ing  down  around  curve  after  curve  of  the  sandy  road. 
Mary  Warren,  still  dazed,  and  dull  where  she  lay, 
heard  them  go  by.  Yonder  then,  lay  the  trail — but 
could  she  know  which  way?  If  she  turned  her  head 
she  would  lose  the  direction.  She  kept  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  last  point  of  the  compass  from  which  she 
had  heard  the  car  distinctly,  and  taking  the  muzzle 
of  the  revolver  in  her  hand,  endeavored  to  scratch  a 
mark  in  the  sand  to  give  her  the  direction  later  by 
the  sense  of  touch.  She  laid  the  pistol  itself  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  little  furrow,  pointing  toward  the 
road  which  she  had  left.  Sinking  down,  she  resigned 
herself  to  what  she  felt  must  soon  be  the  end. 

The  chill  of  the  mountain  night  was  coming  on. 
The  whispering  in  the  pines  grew  less.  Vaguely  she 
sensed  that  the  sun  was  low,  that  soon  twilight  would 
come.  She  had  no  means  of  making  a  fire,  had  no 

134 


THE  SPECIES 

covering,  no  food.  Simply  a  lost  unit  of  one  of  the 
many  species  inhabiting  the  earth,  surviving  each  as 
it  may,  she  cowered  alone  and  helpless  in  the  wilder 
ness. 

The  hush  of  the  evening  came.  The  pines  were 
silent.  There  was  only  one  little  faint  sound  above 
her — in  some  tree,  she  thought.  It  was  made  by  a 
worm  boring  under  the  bark,  seeking  place  for  the 
larvae  which  presently  it  would  leave,  in  order  that 
its  species  might  endure.  A  small  sound,  of  no  great 
carrying  power. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  REBIRTH    OF   SIM    GAGE 

NEITHER  Sim  Gage  nor  his  neighbor  slept  to 
any  worth  that  night.  At  times  one  would 
speak,  but  they  held  no  discussion.  Wid 
Gardner,  in  an  iron  wrath,  was  thinking  much. 

Sim  Gage  lay  with  his  eyes  opened  toward  the 
rude  ceiling.  In  his  heart  was  something  new. 
Hitherto  in  all  his  life  he  had  never  quarreled  with 
fate,  but  smiled  at  it  as  something  beyond  his  mak 
ing  or  his  mending.  He  was  one  of  the  world's  lost 
sheep,  one  of  the  army  of  the  unhoping.  The  moun 
tains,  the  valleys,  the  trees,  had  been  enough  for  him, 
the  glint  of  the  sun  on  the  silver  gray  of  the  sage 
yonder  on  the  plains.  He  had  been  content  to  spend 
his  life  here  where  chance  had  thrown  him.  But 
now — and  Sim  Gage  himself  knew  it — something  new 
had  been  born  in  Sim  Gage's  heart.  It  troubled  him. 
He  lay  there  and  bent  his  mind  upon  the  puzzle,  in 
tensely,  wonderingly. 

It  had  been  bravado  with  him  up  to  the  time  that 
he  knew  this  girl  was  coming  out.  After  that,  curios 
ity  and  a  sense  of  fair  play,  mingled,  had  ensued. 
Then  a  new  feeling  had  come  after  he  had  met  the 

136 


THE  REBIRTH  OF  SIM  GAGE 

girl  herself — pity,  and  remorse  in  regard  to  a  help 
less  woman.  Sim  Gage  did  not  know  the  dangerous 
kinship  that  pity  holds.  He  knew  no  proverbs  and  no 
poetry. 

But  now,  mixed  also  with  his  feeling  of  vague 
loss,  his  sense  of  rage,  there  was  now,  as  Sim  Gage 
realized  perfectly  well,  a  new  and  yet  more  powerful 
emotion  in  his  soul.  He  was  not  the  same  man,  now ; 
he  never  again  would  be.  Pity  and  propinquity  and 
the  great  law  had  done  their  work !  For  the  first  and 
only  time  in  all  his  life  Sim  Gage  was  in  love! 

Love  dareth  and  endureth  all  things,  magnifies  and 
lessens,  softens  and  hardens,  loosens  and  binds,  estab 
lishes  for  itself  new  worlds,  fabricates  for  itself  new 
values,  chastens,  humbles,  makes  weak,  makes  strong. 
Sim  Gage  never  before  had  known  how  merciless,  how 
cruel  all  this  may  be.  He  was  in  love.  With  all  his 
heart  and  life  and  soul  he  loved  her,  right  or  wrong. 
There  had  been  a  miracle  in  Two-Forks  Valley. 

The  two  men  were  astir  long  before  dawn.  Wid 
Gardner  first  kicked  off  his  blankets.  'Til  find  me  a 
horse,"  said  he.  "You  git  breakfast,  Sim,  if  you 
can."  He  went  into  the  darkness  of  the  starlit  morn 
ing. 

Sim  Gage,  his  wounded  leg  stiff  and  painful  enough, 
crawled  out  of  his  bunk — the  same  where  She  but 
now  had  slept — and  made  some  sort  of  a  light  by 
means  of  matches  and  a  stub  of  candle;  found  a  stick 
and  made  some  shavings;  made  shift  to  start  a  fire. 
With  a  hatchet  he  found  on  the  floor  he  hacked  off 

137 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

more  of  the  charred  woodwork  of  his  own  door 
frame,  seeing  that  it  must  be  ruined  altogether.  It  was 
nothing  to  him  what  became  of  this  house.  The  only 
question  in  his  mind  was,  Where  was  She?  What 
had  happened  to  Her? 

His  breakfast  was  that  of  the  solitary  man  in  such 
surroundings.  He  got  a  little  bacon  into  a  pan, 
chipped  up  some  potatoes  which  he  managed  to  pare — - 
old  potatoes  now,  and  ready  to  sprout  long  since. 
He  mixed  up  some  flour  and  water  with  salt  and  bak 
ing  powder  and  cooked  that  in  a  pan. 

The  odors  of  the  cooking  brought  new  life  into 
the  otherwise  silent  interior  of  Sim  Gage's  cabin.  Sim 
felt  something  at  his  feet,  at  his  leg.  It  was  the 
Airedale  puppy  which  he  had  left  curled  up  all  night 
at  the  foot  of  his  bed.  The  scent  of  the  meat  now 
had  awakened  him,  and  he  was  begging  his  new 
master  for  attention. 

Sim  leaned  down  stiffly  to  pat  him  on  the  head,  gave 
him  a  bit  of  food.  Then  he  bethought  him  of  the 
sack  of  fowls  which  he  had  entirely  forgotten — found 
them  luckily  still  alive  in  the  wagon  bed,  cut  off  the 
sacking  around  them,  and  drove  them  out  into  the 
open  to  shift  for  themselves  as  best  they  might  But 
the  little  dog  would  not  be  cast  off.  He  followed  Sim 
wherever  he  went,  licked  his  hand.  That  made  him 
think  how  She  would  have  petted  the  puppy  had  She 
been  there.  He  had  got  the  dog  for  Her. 

By  the  time  he  had  the  meal  ready  Wid  Gardner 
was  back  leading  a  horse.  There  was  no  saddle  at 

138 


THE  REBIRTH  OF  SIM  GAGE 

either  ranch  now,  but  Wid  searched  around  and  found 
a  bit  of  discarded  sack,  a  piece  of  rope  near  the 
burned  barn. 

"I'll  ride  down  the  valley,"  said  he  after  the  two 
had  eaten  in  silence.  "Wait  till  I  ride  down  to  Jen 
sen's.  He'll  come  along." 

"Well,  hurry  back,"  said  the  new  Sim,  with  a  reso 
lution  and  decision  in  his  voice  which  surprised  his 
neighbor.  "I  can't  very  well  go  off  alone.  Send 
word  down  to  the  dam.  We  got  to  clean  out  this 
gang." 

"Yes,"  replied  Wid,  "they'd  better  look  out  who's 
working  on  the  dam.  It  ain't  all  soldiers.  You  can't 
tell  a  thing  about  where  this  is  going  to  run  to — they 
might  blow  out  the  dam,  for  all  you  can  tell.  They 
ain't  up  in  there  for  no  good, — after  the  timber,  likely. 
I  wonder  how  many  there  is  of  them." 

"I  don't  care  how  many  there  is,"  said  Sim  Gage 
simply. 

Early  as  Gardner  was,  he  was  not  the  only  traveler 
on  the  road.  As  he  approached  Nels  Jensen's  gate  he 
saw  below  that  place  on  the  road  the  light  of  a  car 
traveling  at  speed. 

He  slid  off  his  horse,  tied  the  animal,  and  stood, 
rifle  in  hand,  directly  in  front  of  the  approaching 
vehicle. 

"Halt!"  he  cried,  and  flung  up  his  left  hand  high, 
the  rifle  held  in  his  right,  under  his  arm  pit. 

It  was  no  enemy  who  now  slowed  down  the  car 
and  cut  out  the  lights.  A  voice  not  unfamiliar  called 

139 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

out,  "What's  wrong  with  you,  man?     What  do  you 
want?    You  trying  to  hold  me  up?" 

"Is  that  you,  Doc?  No  one  passes  here.  What  are 
you  doing  up  here?"  Wid  walked  up  to  the  edge  of 
the  car. 

"I'm  on  a  call,  that's  what  I'm  doing  up  here," 
replied  Doctor  Barnes.  "Have  you  heard  anything 
about  an  accident  up  on  the  Reserve  ?" 

"Accidents  a-plenty,  right  around  here.  I  don't 
know  nothing  about  the  Reserve.  Who  told  you  ?" 

"A  man,  last  night  late.  Said  there  was  a  man  hurt 
up  in  the  timber  camp,  for  me  to  go  up  fast  as  I 
could.  Tree  fell  on  him.  They  left  him  up  there 
alone,  because  they  couldn't  bring  him  out." 

"That  so  ?"  commented  Wrid  Gardner  grimly. 

— "So  that  elected  me,  you  see.  Every  time  I  try 
to  get  a  night's  sleep,  here  comes  some  damn  sage- 
brusher  and  wants  me  to  come  out  and  cure  his  sick 
cow,  or  else  mamma's  got  a  baby,  or  a  horse  has  got 
in  the  wire,  or  papa's  broke  a  leg,  or  something.  Damn 
the  country  anyhow!  I  wish  I'd  never  seen  it.  I'm 
a  doctor,  yes,  but  I'm  the  Company  doctor,  and  I  don't 
have  to  run  on  these  fool  trips.  But  of  course  I  do," 
he  added,  smiling  sunnily  after  his  usual  fashion. 
"So  I  come  along  here.  And  you  hold  me  up.  What 
do  you  want?" 

"I  want  you  to  wait  and  come  in  and  see  Nels 
Jensen  with  me,  Doc,"  said  Wid  Gardner.  "Hell's 
to  pay." 

140 


"What's  wrong?"  Doctor  Barnes'  face  grew 
graver. 

"We  don't  know  what.  When  Sim  and  me  come 
home,  some  one  had  been  here  when  we  was  gone. 
Sim's  barn  is  burned,  and  all  his  hay,  and  all  mine, 
and  my  house — I  haven't  got  lock,  stock  nor  barrel 
left  of  my  ranch,  and  nothing  to  make  a  crop  with." 

"What  do  you  think  ?"  asked  Doctor  Barnes  gravely. 

"We  don't  know  what  to  think.  It's  like  enough 
a  hold-on  from  that  old  Industrial  work — they  been 
threatening  all  down  the  valley,  since  times  are  hard 
and  wages  fell  a  little  after  the  war  work  shut  down. 
There  was  some  hay  burned  down  below  there.  Folks 
said  it  was  spontaneous  combustion,  or  something — 
said  it  got  hot  workin'  in  the  stacks.  I  ain't  so  sure 
now.  It's  them  old  ways.  As  if  they  ever  got  any 
thing  by  that !" 

Dr.  Barnes  puckered  his  lips  into  a  long  whistle. 
"I  wonder  if  there's  any  two  and  two  to  put  together 
in  this  thing!"  said  he.  "I  came  up  here  to  get  that 
poor  devil  out  of  the  woods.  But  who  can  tell  what 
in  the  merry  hell  has  really  happened  up  there?" 

"We  got  to  go  and  see,"  said  Wid  Gardner.  "You 
know  that  woman?" 

The  doctor  nodded. 

"She's  gone  too.  Whoever  it  was  took  her  off  in 
a  car  from  up  at  the  head  of  Sim  Gage's  lane." 

Doctor  Barnes  got  down  out  of  the  car,  and  the  two 
walked  through  Nels  Jensen's  gate.  Jensen  was  afoot, 

141 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

ready  for  the  day's  work.    He  agreed  that  one  of  his 
boys  would  carry  the  news  to  the  Company  dam. 

"Better  give  us  a  little  something  to  eat  along  with 
us,  Karen,"  he  said  to  his  wife.  He  took  down  his 
rifle,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  Doctor  Barnes.  "Have 
you  got  an  extra  gun  ?"  asked  the  latter.  Jensen  nod 
ded,  finding  the  spare  piece  near  at  hand. 

Very  little  more  was  said.  They  all  walked  out 
into  the  morning,  when  the  red  ball  of  the  sun  was 
coming  up  above  the  misty  valley. 

"Go  on  ahead  in  the  car,"  said  Wid.  "I'll  bring 
my  horse." 

They  met  at  Sim  Gage's  half-burned  home.  Sim 
himself  hobbled  out,  rifle  under  one  arm  and  the  little 
Airedale  under  the  other,  the  latter  wriggling  and 
barking  in  his  delight.  The  purr  of  a  good  motor 
was  soon  under  them.  In  a  few  moments  they  were 
out  of  Sim  Gage's  lane  and  along  the  highway  as  far 
as  the  point  where  the  Tepee  Creek  trail  turned  off 
into  the  mountains. 

"Wait  here,  Doc,"  said  Wid,  "Sim  and  me  want 
to  have  a  look — we  know  the  track  of  that  car  that 
done  the  work  down  here." 

But  when  they  bent  over  the  trail,  they  saw  that 
it  was  was  different  from  what  it  had  been  when  they 
left  it  the  night  before!  Wid  cursed  aloud,  and  Sim 
Gage  joined  him  heartily. 

"It's  wiped  out,"  said  Sim.  "Some  one's  been  over 
this  trail  since  last  night.  This  car  ain't  got  no  busted 
tire." 

142 


THE  REBIRTH  OF  SIM  GAGE 

"'That  may  be  the  very  man  that  came  down  and 
called  me!"  exclaimed  Doctor  Barnes. 

"I  heard  him  when  he  went  down  the  road,"  nodded 
Nels  Jensen — "last  night.  I'll  bet  that's  the  same 
car.  I'll  bet  it  come  down  out  of  the  mountains." 

They  passed  on  up  the  creek  valley  toward  the 
Reserve  far  more  rapidly  than  the  weaker  car  of  Big 
Aleck  had  climbed  the  same  grade  the  day  previous, 
but  the  main  body  of  the  forest  lay  three  thousand 
feet  above  the  valley  floor,  and  the  ascent  was  so 
sharp  that  at  times  they  were  obliged  to  stop  in  order 
to  allow  the  engine  to  cool. 

"What's  that?"  said  Sim  Gage  after  a  time,  when 
they  had  been  on  their  way  perhaps  an  hour  up  the 
winding  canon,  and  had  paused  for  the  time.  "Smoke? 
That  ain't  no  camp  fire — it's  more." 

They  made  one  or  two  more  curves  of  the  road 
and  then  got  confirmation.  A  long,  low  blanket  of 
smoke  was  drifting  off  down  the  valley  to  the  right, 
settling  in  a  gray-blue  cloud  along  the  mountain  side. 
The  wind  was  from  left  to  right,  so  that  the  smoke 
carried  free  of  the  trail. 

"She's  a-fire,  boys!"  exclaimed  Wid.  "We  better 
git  out  of  here  while  we  can." 

"We  ain't  a-going  to  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said 
a  quiet  voice.  Wid  Gardner  turned  to  look  into  the 
face  of  Sim  Gage.  "We're  a-going  right  on  up 
ahead." 

Wid  Gardner  looked  at  Doctor  Barnes.  The  latter 
made  his  answer  by  starting  the  car  once  more.  Al- 

143 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

though  they  did  not  know  it,  they  now  were  approach 
ing  their  journey's  end.  They  could  not  as  yet  see  the 
swift  advance  of  the  fire  from  tree  to  tree,  because 
the  wind  as  yet  was  no  stronger  than  the  gentle  air 
of  morning;  could  not  as  yet  hear  any  roar  of  the 
flames.  But  they  saw  that  now,  on  these  mountain 
slopes  before  them,  one  of  the  most  valuable  timber 
bodies  in  the  state  was  passing  into  destruction. 

"God  damn  their  souls!"  said  Wid  Gardner  fer 
vently.  "Wasn't  it  enough  what  they  done  to  us 
already?" 

"Go  on,  Doc."  It  was  Sim's  voice.  Wid  Gardner 
knew  perfectly  well  what  drove  Sim  Gage  on. 

But  the  car  soon  came  to  a  sudden  halt.  A  couple 
of  hundred  yards  on  ahead  lay  an  open  glade.  At 
the  left  of  the  trail  stood  a  great  wall  tent. 

In  an  instant,  every  man  was  out  of  the  car,  the 
three  ranchmen,  like  hounds  on  the  scent,  silently 
trotting  off,  taking  cover  from  tree  to  tree.  A  few 
moments,  and  the  four  of  them,  rifles  at  a  ready,  had 
surrounded  the  tent.  As  they  closed  in,  they  all  heard 
a  high,  clear  voice — one  they  would  not  have  inspected 
Sim  Gage  to  have  owned — calling  out :  "Throw  up 
your  hands,  in  there!"  Actually,  Sim  Gage  was 
leader ! 

There  came  an  exclamation  in  a  hoarse  and  broken 
voice.  "Who  are  you?  Don't  shoot — I  surrender." 

"How  many  are  there  of  you?"  inquired  Doctor 
Barnes. 

144 


THE  REBIRTH  OF  SIM  GAGE 

"It's  me — Big  Aleck — I'm  shot — I'm  dying — 
Help!— Who  is  it?" 

"Come  out,  Aleck!"  called  the  high  and  resolute 
voice  of  Sim  Gage — "Come  on  out!" 

"I  can't  come  out.    I'm  shot,  I  tell  you.'* 

Then  Sim  Gage  did  what  ordinarily  might  not  have 
been  a  wise  thing  to  do.  Without  pause  he  swept 
aside  the  tent  flap  with  the  barrel  of  his  rifle,  and 
stepped  in,  quickly  covering  the  prostrate  figure  that 
lay  on  the  bloody  blankets  before  him. 

Big  Aleck  was  able  to  do  more  than  move.  He 
raised  one  hand,  feebly,  imploring  mercy. 

"Come  out,  damn  you!"  said  Sim  Gage,  his  hand 
at  the  collar  of  the  crippled  man.  He  dragged  his 
prisoner  out  into  the  light  and  threw  him  full  length, — 
mercilessly — upon  the  needle-covered  sand. 

The  crippled  man  began  to  weep,  to  beg.  It  was 
small  mercy  he  saw  as  he  looked  from  face  to  face. 

"That's  my  man,"  exclaimed  Doctor  Barnes.  "But 
it's  not  any  accident  with  a  tree.  That's  gun  shot!" 

"Who  done  that  work  down  below?"  demanded  Sim 
of  the  prostrate  man.  "Where  is  she?  Tell  me!" 
His  voice  still  rang  high  and  imperative. 

Big  Aleck  shivered  where  he  lay.  Now  he  too  saw 
the  flames  on  ahead  in  the  woods. 

"Who  set  that  fire?"  demanded  the  Doctor  sud 
denly.  "Whose  work  was  that?" 

"It  was  sabcats!"  said  Big  Aleck,  frightened  into 
an  ingenious  lie.  "They  was  in  here.  I'm  the  gov 
ernment  foreman.  I  don't  know  how  they  got  in  or 

145 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

got  out     They  must  of  set  a  'clock'  somewhere  for 
to  start  it." 

"Who  do  you  mean — sabcats?"  demanded  Doctor 
Barnes.  The  other  three  stood  coldb"  and  implacably 
staring  at  the  crippled  man. 

"I  caught  them  in  here — I'm  in  charge  of  this  work, 
you  see.  I  tried  to  stop  them.  They  shot  me  and 
left  me  here.  They  said  they'd  send  a  doctor." 

"I'm  the  doctor,"  replied  the  medical  man,  who 
stood  looking  at  him.  "Where  is  that  woman?" 

Big  Aleck  rolled  his  head.  "I  don't  know.  I  don't 
know  nothing.  I'm  shot — I'm  going  to  die." 

"We've  got  to  get  out,"  said  Doctor  Barnes.  "Boys, 
shall  we  get  him  into  the  car?" 

"No!"  said  Sim  Gage,  sharply.  "I  won't  ride  with 
him.  Where  is  she?"  He  stepped  close  up  to  Big 
Aleck,  pushing  in  front  of  the  others.  "You  know. 
Damn  you,  tell  me!" 

"Keep  him  away!"  yelled  Big  Aleck.  "He's  going 
to  kill  me!"  He  tried  to  get  on  his  elbows,  his  hands 
and  knees,  but  could  not,  broken  down  as  he  was.  He 
was  abject — an  evil  man  overtaken  by  an  evil  fate. 

"Where  is  she?"  repeated  Sim  Gage.     "Tell  me!" 

"I  tell  you  I  don't  know.     She  ran  off,  that  way." 

"That's  the  car  that  brung  her  up !"  said  Wid  Gard 
ner,  motioning  toward  the  ragged  tire  of  the  rear 
wheel.  "See  that  tire,  Sim?  That's  the  car!  She's 
been  here." 

"Go  see  if  you  can  git  the  trail,  Wid,"  said  Sim 
Gage  to  his  friend.  "Quick !" 

146 


THE  REBIRTH  OF  SIM  GAGE 

Sim  himself  passed  for  a  moment,  hurriedly,  to 
the  car  which  had  brought  his  party  up.  He  had  left 
the  little  dog  tied  there,  but  now  heard  it  whining, 
and  stopped  to  loosen  it.  It  ran  about,  barking.  Head 
down,  Sim  Gage  stumbled  off,  following  a  trail  which 
he  half  thought  he  saw,  but  he  lost  it  on  the  pine 
needles,  and  came  back,  bitter  of  heart,  once  more  to 
face  the  man  who  lay  helpless  on  the  ground — the 
man  who  now  he  knew  was  his  enemy,  not  to  be  for 
given  or  spared. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  said  to  Aleck  once  more.  "It 
was  her  trail,  I  know  it.  Tell  me  the  truth  now,  while 
you  can  talk." 

"You  was  follering  right  the  way  she  went,  far  as 
I  know,"  moaned  Aleck.  "How  kin  I  tell  where  she 
went,  after  I  was  shot?" 

"After  you  was  shot?    Who  shot  you?    Did  she?" 

"I  told  you  who  shot  me.     It  was  them  fellers." 

"Then  why  didn't  they  kill  you,  if  they  wanted  to? 
They  could  of  finished  you,  couldn't  they?  Where's 
my  six-shooter,  Aleck — you  took  it  outen  my  house, 
and  you  know  you  did." 

He  stepped  back  into  the  tent  and  began  to  kick 
around  among  the  blankets.  "There's  nothing  here 
excepting  your  own  rifle."  He  came  out,  unloaded 
the  gun,  smashed  the  lever  against  the  nearest  tree. 

"You  won't  never  need  no  gun  no  more,"  said  he. 

"I'll  have  to  look  after  him,  now,"  said  Doctor 
Barnes,  stepping  forward.  He  had  stood  looking  at 

147 


the  crippled  man,  his  own  hands  on  his  hips.     "He's 
bad  off." 

"Keep  away — don't  you  touch  him!"  It  was  still 
the  new  voice  of  Sim  Gage  that  was  talking  now,  and 
there  was  something  in  his  tone  which  made  the  others 
all  fall  back.  All  the  time  Sim  Gage's  rifle  was  cover 
ing  the  writhing  man. 

"I  tried  to  save  her,"  whimpered  Big  Aleck  now. 

"You  lie!  Why  did  you  bring  her  up  here  then? 
Why  didn't  you  leave  her  there — she  didn't  have 
to  come."  Sim  Gage  still  was  talking  now  sharp, 
decisive.  "Where  is  she  now?" 

"Good  God,  man,  I  told  you  I  didn't  know.  How 
do  I  know  which  way  she'd  run?  She  said  she  was 
blind — but  I  don't  believe  she  was." 

"Why  don't  you?"  demanded  Sim  Gage.  "Because 
she  could  shoot  you? — Because  she  did  shoot  you, 
twice?  What  made  her?  Where's  my  gun?  Did  she 
take  it  with  her  after  she  shot  you?" 

The  sweat  broke  out  now  on  the  gray  and  grimed 
forehead  of  the  suffering  man.  "I  won't  tell  you 
nothing  more!"  he  broke  out.  "What  right  you  got 
to  arrest  me?  I  ain't  committed  no  crime,  and  you 
ain't  got  no  warrant.  I  want  a  lawyer.  I  want  this 
doctor  to  take  care  of  me.  I  got  money  to  get  a 
lawyer.  I  don't  have  to  answer  no  questions  you 
ask  me." 

"You  say  she  went  over  that  way?"  Sim's  finger 
was  pointing  across  the  road  in  the  direction  of  the 
fire. 

148 


THE  REBIRTH  OF  SIM  GAGE 

"I  told  you,  yes,"  nodded  Big  Aleck.  And  Sim 
Gage's  own  knowledge  gained  from  the  last  direction 
of  the  footprints  confirmed  this. 

"Blind — and  out  all  night  in  these  mountains!"  he 
said,  his  voice  shaking  for  the  first  time.  "And  then 
conies  that  fire.  You  done  that,  Aleck — you  know 
you  done  it." 

"I  told  you  I  didn't  know  nothing,"  protested  the 
crippled  man,  who  now  had  turned  again  upon  his 
back.  "I  ain't  a-goin'  to  talk.  It  was  them  fellers." 

"Some  things  you'd  better  know,"  said  Sim  Gage, 
suddenly  judge  in  this  court,  suddenly  assembled. 
"Some  things  I  know  now.  You  come  down  to  my 
house  your  own  self.  It  was  you  set  my  barn  a-fire 
and  burned  my  house  and  my  hay,  and  killed  my 
stock.  It  was  you  carried  that  girl  off.  I  know  why 
you  done  it,  too.  You  wasn't  fighting  that  bunch  in 
here — they  was  with  you.  You  was  all  on  the  same 
business,  and  you  know  it.  You  made  trouble  before 
the  war,  and  you're  making  it  now,  when  we're  all 
trying  to  settle  down  in  the  peace." 

He  was  beginning  to  tremble  now  as  he  talked. 
"Didn't  she  shoot  you? — Now,  tell  me  the  truth." 

"Yes!"  said  the  prisoner  suddenly,  seeing  that  in 
the  other's  eyes  which  demanded  the  truth.  "She  did 
shoot  me,  and  then  ran  away.  She  took  your  gun. 
But  I  didn't  set  the  fire.  Honest  to  God,  I  don't  know 
how  it  got  out.  I  swear — oh,  my  God — have  mercy!" 

But  what  he  afterward  would  have  sworn  no  man 
ever  knew.  There  was  a  rifle  shot — from  whose  rifle 

149 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

none  of  the  four  ever  could  tell.  It  struck  Big  Aleck 
fair  below  the  eyes,  and  blew  his  head  well  apart.  He 
fell  backward  at  the  door  of  the  tent. 

They  turned  away  slowly.  Just  for  an  instant  they 
stood  looking  at  the  sweeping  blanket  of  smoke.  They 
walked  to  the  car,  paying  no  further  attention  to  the 
figure  which  lay  motionless  behind  them.  The  fire 
might  come  and  make  its  winding  sheet. 

It  was  coming.  Wid  Gardner  lifted  his  head. 
"Wind's  changing,"  said  he.  "Hurry!" 

They  headed  down  the  trail  as  fast  as  might  be. 

"Wait,  now,  Doc!"  said  Sim  Gage,  a  moment  after 
they  started.  "Wait  now!" 

"What's  up?"  said  Doctor  Barnes.  "Look  at  that 
smoke." 

"Where's  that  little  dog,  now?  We've  forgot 
him." 

He  sprang  out  of  the  car,  began  stumbling  back 
up  the  trail,  his  own  leg  dragging. 

'Cut  off  the  car!"  he  called  back.  "I  can't  hear  a 
thing." 

As  he  stood  there  came  up  to  him  from  the  moun 
tain  side  a  sound  which  made  him  turn  and  plunge 
down  in  that  direction  himself.  It  was  a  shot.  Then 
the  bark  of  the  Airedale,  baying  "treed." 

The  dog  itself,  keen  of  nose,  and  of  the  instinct  to 
run  almost  any  sort  of  trail,  even  so  very  faint  as 
this  on  which  it  was  set,  had  in  part  followed  out 
the  winding  course  of  the  fleeing  girl  after  Sim  Gage 
himself  had  abandoned  it,  thinking  it  had  been  laid 


THE  REBIRTH  OF  SIM  GAGE 

on  that  trail.  And  now  what  Sim  saw  on  ahead,  down 
the  hill,  below  the  trail,  was  the  figure  of  Mary  War 
ren  herself,  sitting  up  weakly,  gropingly,  on  the  log 
over  which  she  had  fallen  the  night  before — beneath 
which,  like  some  animal,  she  had  cowered  all  that 
awful  night  on  the  heap  of  pine  needles  which  she  had 
swept  up  for  herself! 

A  cry  broke  from  Sim  Gage's  lips.  She  heard  him 
and  herself  called  out  aloud,  "Sim!  Sim!  Is  it  you? 
I  knew  it  was  you  when  the  dog  came!" 

And  then,  still  shivering  and  trembling  with  fear 
and  cold  and  exhaustion,  Mary  Warren  once  more 
lost  all  sense  of  things,  and  dropped  limp.  The  little 
dog  stood  licking  at  her  hands  and  face. 

Here  was  work  for  Doctor  Barnes  after  all.  He 
took  charge.  The  four  of  them  carried  the  woman  up 
the  hill  to  the  car.  He  had  restoratives  which  served 
in  good  stead  now. 

"Poor  thing!"  said  he.  "Out  all  night!  It's  just 
a  God's  mercy  she  didn't  freeze  to  death,  that's  all." 

He  himself  was  wondering  at  the  extraordinary 
beauty  of  this  woman.  Who  was  she — what  was 
there  in  this  talk  that  two  ranchmen  had  made,  down 
there  at  the  dam?  Why,  this  was  no  ordinary  ranch- 
woman  at  all,  but  a  woman  of  distinction,  one  to  at 
tract  notice  anywhere. 

Mary  Warren  at  last  began  to  talk, — before  the 
smoke  cloud  drove  them  down  the  trail.  "I  heard  a 
shot,"  said  she,  turning  a  face  toward  them.  "Who 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

was  it?  I  didn't  signal  then,  for  I  didn't  know.  I 
waited.  Then  the  dog  came." 

No  one  answered  her. 

"That  must  have  been  what  brought  me  to.  It 
sounded  up  the  hill.  Where — where  is  he?" 

They  did  not  answer  even  yet,  and  she  went  on. 

"Who  are  you  all?"  she  demanded.  "I  don't  see 
you,  of  course."  She  was  looking  into  the  face  of 
Doctor  Barnes  who  bent  above  her,  his  hand  on  her 
pulse. 

"I'm  Doctor  Barnes,"  said  he.  "I  work  down  at 
the  Company's  plant  at  the  big  dam.  You  are  Miss 
Mary  Warren,  are  you  not?" 

She  nodded.     "Yes." 

"I  won't  introduce  these  others,  but  they're  all 
friends — we  all  are." 

She  was  recognizing  the  voice,  the  diction  of  a  gen 
tleman.  The  thought  gave  her  comfort. 

"What's  that  smoke?"  she  said  suddenly,  herself 
catching  the  scent  pervading  the  air. 

"The  whole  mountain's  afire,"  said  Sim  Gage.  "We 
got  to  hurry  if  we  get  out  of  here." 

"I  know — it  was  those  people ! — Where  is  that  man  ? 
You  found  him?" 

The  voice  of  Doctor  Barnes  broke  in  quickly.  "He'd 
been  hurt  by  a  tree — we  had  to  leave  him  because  he 
was  too  far  gone,  Miss  Warren,"  said  he.  "We 
couldn't  save  him.  He  couldn't  answer  any  questions 
— not  even  a  hypothetical  question — when  we  tried 

152 


THE  REBIRTH  OF  SIM  GAGE 

him.  But  now,  don't  try  to  talk.  He's  got  what  he 
had  coming,  and  he'll  never  trouble  you  again." 

"Whose  little  dog  is  this?"  she  asked  suddenly, 
reaching  out  a  hand  which  the  young  Airedale  kissed 
fervently.  "If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  little  dog,  you'd 
never  have  found  me,  would  you  ?  You  couldn't  have 
heard  me  call.  I  would  not  have  dared  to  shoot. 
Whose  little  dog?" 

"It's  yours,  ma'am,"  said  Sim  Gage.  "And  I  got 
four  hens." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

SAGEBRUSHERS 

NELS  JENSEN  reached  his  home  late  in  the 
afternoon,  his  face  grave  and  his  tongue  more 
than  usually  tight.  His  wife,  Karen,  looked 
at  him  for  some  time  before  she  spoke. 

"Find  anything,  up  in?" 

He  nodded  quietly. 

"Doctor  get  to  that  sick  man?" 

"He  wasn't  sick,"  rejoined  Nels.  "Tree  fell  on 
him." 

"What  you  do  with  him?" 

"Died  before  we  come  out  Whole  woods  was  afire 
up  in  there." 

"I  see  the  smoke  a  while  back,"  said  she  unemo 
tionally,  nodding  and  gazing  out  of  the  window  to 
ward  the  distant  landscape.  "Died,  did  he?  Did  you 
bring  him  down?" 

"The  wind  has  changed,"  said  Nels  sententiously. 
"Before  night,  won't  be  nothing  to  bring  down.  We 
left  him  in  his  tent." 

"Who  set  that  fire,  Nels?"  she  demanded  of  her 
husband  after  a  time. 

"The  same  people  that  burned  out  Sim  Gage  and 
154 


SAGEBRUSHERS 

Wid  Gardner.  All  of  'em  had  cleared  out  but  that 
one." 

"How  about  that  woman,  Nels?" 

"We  bmng  her  down  with  us.  She'd  spent  the  night 
in  the  woods  alone.  Doctor's  got  her  in  bed  over  at 
Sim's  place  now."  He  turned  his  heavy  face  upon 
her  frowningly,  apparently  passing  upon  some  ques 
tion  they  earlier  had  discussed.  "I  say  it's  all  right, 
Karen,  about  her." 

"Well,  are  they  going  to  be  married  ?"  she  demanded 
of  him.  "That's  the  question.  Because  if  they 
ain't " 

"If  they  are  or  they  ain't,"  said  Nels  Jensen,  "she's 
not  no  common  folks  like  us." 

"A  lady— huh !" 

"Yes,  if  I  can  tell  one.  Such  being  so,  best  thing 
you  can  do,  Karen,  is  to  get  some  eggs  together,  and 
like  enough  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  go  over  there  right 
soon." 

"If  they  wasn't  going  to  be  married,"  began  Karen, 
'Seople  in  here  wouldn't  let  that  run  along." 

'Karen,"  said  her  husband  succinctly,  "sometimes 
you  women  folks  make  me  tired.  Go  on  and  get 
*ue  eggs." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  his  wife;  and  already  she  was 
reaching  for  her  sunbonnet.  When  she  and  her  sturdy 
spouse  had  made  their  way  by  a  short  cut  across  the 
fields  to  Sim  Gage's  house,  Karen  Jensen  had  melted, 
and  was  no  longer  righteous  judge,  but  simply  neigh 
bor. 

155 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Where  is  she?"  she  demanded  imperiously  of  Wid 
Gardner,  whom  she  found  standing  outside  the  door. 

Wid  nodded  toward  the  interior  of  the  half-ruined 
cabin.  As  she  passed  in  she  saw  Doctor  Barnes,  sit 
ting  on  a  box,  quietly  watching  the  pale  face  of  a 
woman,  young,  dark-haired,  flushed,  her  eyes  heavy, 
her  hands  spread  out  piteously  upon  the  blanket  cover 
ing  of  the  rude  bunk  bed.  Karen's  first  quick  glance 
assured  her  that  this  young  woman  was  all  that  Nels 
Jensen  had  called  her — a  lady.  She  looked  so  help 
less  now  that  the  big  ranchwoman's  heart  went  out  to 
her  in  spite  of  all. 

"You'd  better  get  right  out,  Doctor,"  said  she;  and 
that  gentleman  followed  her  orders,  exceeding  glad  to 
welcome  a  woman  in  this  womanless  wreck  of  a  home. 

Doctor  Barnes  stood  outside,  hands  in  pocket,  for 
a  time  looking  across  the  meadows  lined  with  their 
banks  of  willows,  silvering  as  usual  in  the  evening 
breeze.  "Come  here,"  said  he  at  length  to  the  three 
men.  They  all  followed  him  to  one  side. 

"Now,  Gage,"  said  he,  "I  want  you  to  tell  me  the 
truth  about  how  this  woman  came  out  here." 

Wid  Gardner,  taking  pity  on  his  friend,  told  him 
instead,  going  into  all  the  details  of  the  conspiracy 
that  had  now  proved  so  disastrous.  Doctor  Barnes 
irowned  in  resentment  when  he  heard. 

"She's  got  to  go  back  East,"  said  he,  "as  soon  as 
she's  able  to  travel." 

"That's  what  I  think,"  said  Sim  Gage  slowly.  "It's 
what  I  told  her.  But  she  always  said  she  didn't  have 

156 


SAGEBRUSHERS 

no  place  to  go  back  to.     She  could  stay  here  as  long 
as  she  liked,  but  now  I  ain't  got  much." 

"But  it  can't  run  on  this  way,  Gage,"  said  Doctor 
Barnes.  "That  girl's  clean  as  wheat.  Something's 
got  to  be  done  about  this." 

"Well,  good  God  A'mighty!"  said  Sim  Gage,  "ain't 
that  what  I  know?  If  only  you'll  tell  me  what's 
right  to  do,  I  sure  will  do  it.  In  one  way  it  ain't  just 
only  my  fault  she  come  out  here,  nor  it  ain't  my  fault 
if  she  don't  go  back." 

Doctor  Barnes  engaged  for  some  time  in  breaking 
up  bits  of  bark  and  casting  them  from  his  thumb 
nail.  "Have  you  ever  had  any  talk  with  her  about 
this?"  said  he. 

"Some,"  said  Sim  honestly;  "yes,  some." 

"What  was  it?" 

"She  told  me,  when  she  answered  that  ad,  she  was 
getting  plumb  desperate,  account  of  her  eyes.  She 
was  out  of  work,  and  she  was  broke,  and  she  didn't 
have  no  folks  on  earth,  and  she'd  lost  all  her  money — 
her  folks  used  to  be  rich,  I  reckon,  like  enough.  That's 
the  only  reason  she  answered  that  fool  ad  about  me 
being  in  the  market,  so  to  speak,  fer  a  wife.  That's 
how  she  come  out.  She  must  of  been  locoed.  You 
cain't  blame  her.  She  was  all  alone  in  the  whole  world, 
but  just  one  girl  that  knowed  her.  We  got  a  letter 
from  that  girl — I  got  it  here  in  my  pocket.  We  opened 
it  and  read  it,  Wid  and  me  did,  yesterday.  Her  name's 
Annie  Squires.  But  she's  broke  too,  I  reckon.  Now 
what  are  we  a-goin'  to  do?" 

157 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Have  you  ever  talked  the  whole  business  over — 
you  two — since  she  came  out?" 

"Doc,"  said  Sim  Gage,  "I  told  you,  I  tried  my 
damnedest,  and  I  just  couldn't.  I  says  to  myself,  lady 
like  she  was,  it  wouldn't  be  right  fer  a  man  like  me  to 
marry  her  noways  on  earth." 

"And  what  did  she  say?" 

Sim  Gage  began  to  stammer  painfully.  "I  don't 
know  what  she  would  say,"  said  he.  "I  ain't  never 
asked  her  none  yet." 

"Well,  I  reckon  you'll  have  to,"  said  Doctor  Barnes 
slowly,  after  a  long  time  in  thought;  "if  she  lives." 

"Lives  ?  Doc,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  she's  that 
sick?" 

"She  isn't  trying  to  fight  very  hard.  When  your 
patient  would  rather  die  than  live,  you've  got  hard 
lines,  as  a  doctor.  It's  hard  lines  here  more  ways 
than  one." 

"Die — her! — What  would  /  do  then,  Doc?"  asked 
Sim  Gage,  so  simply  that  Doctor  Barnes  looked  at  him 
keenly,  gravely. 

'It's  not  a  question  about  you,  you  damn  sage- 
brusher,"  said  he  at  last,  gently.  "Question  is,  what's 
best  for  her.  If  I  didn't  feel  such  a  woman  was  too 
good  to  be  wasted  I'd  say,  let  her  go ;  ethics  be  damned 
out  here.  If  she  gets  well  she'll  have  to  decide  some 
time  what's  to  do  about  this  whole  business.  That 
brings  you  into  the  question  again.  It  was  a  bad  bet, 
but  deceived  as  she  was,  she's  put  herself  under  your 
protection.  And  mine!" 

158 


SAGEBRUSHERS 

"You  see,"  he  added,  "that's  something  that  really 
doesn't  come  under  my  profession,  but  it's  something 
that's  up  to  every  decent  man." 

Mrs.  Jensen  came  to  the  door,  broom  in  hand. 
"You,  Sim,"  said  she,  "come  in  here!"  She  accosted 
him  in  hoarse  whispers  when  he  had  obeyed. 

"Look-a-here  at  this  place!"  said  she.  "Is  this 
where  a  hog  or  a  human  has  been  living?  I've  got 
things  straightened  around  now,  and  don't  you  dare 
muss  'em  up.  When  that  pore  girl  is  able  to  get  around 
again  I'm  a-going  to  take  her  and  show  her  where 
everything  is — she'll  keep  this  house  better  blind  than 
you  did  with  your  both  eyes  open.  I've  got  a  aunt 
been  blind  twenty  year,  and  she  cooks  and  sweeps 
and  sews  and  knits  as  good  as  anybody.  She'll  do 
the  same  way.  She's  a  good  knitter,  I  know.  The 
pore  child." 

Sim  reached  out  a  hand  gently  to  the  work  which 
he  found  lying,  needles  still  in  place,  on  the  table  where 
Mary  Warren  had  left  it  the  day  before. 

"She'll  learn  soon,"  said  Karen  Jensen.  "Ain't 
she  pretty  enough  to  make  you  cry,  laying  there  the 
way  she  is."  The  keen  gray  eyes  of  Karen  Jensen 
softened.  "She's  asleep,"  she  whispered.  "Doctor 
doped  her." 

"If  only  now,"  said  Sim  Gage,  frowning  as  usual 
in  thought,  "if  only  I  could  get  some  sort  of  woman 
to  come  here  and  stay  a  while,  until  she  gets  well.  It 
ain't  right  she  should  be  in  a  place  like  this  all  alone." 

"You  pore  fool,"  said  Karen  Jensen,  "did  you  think 
159 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

for  a  minute  I'd  go  away  and  leave  that  girl  alone  with 
you?  Go  out  and  get  some  wood!  I'm  a-going  to 
get  supper  here.  Tell  Nels  he  can  go  back  home  after 
supper,  and  him  and  Minna  and  Theodore  '11  have  to 
keep  house  until  I  get  back.  The  pore  thing — you  said 
she  was  right  blind  ?"  she  concluded. 

"Plumb  blind,"  said  Sim  Gage.  "What's  more,  she 
can't  see  none  a-tall.  It  ain't  no  wonder  she's  scared 
sick." 

"I'm  mighty  glad  you're  a-goin'  to  get  supper  here 
to-night,"  he  continued.  "I'm  that  rattled,  like,  I 
couldn't  make  bread  worth  a  damn." 

He  edged  out  of  the  cabin  and  communicated  his 
news.  "Mrs,  Jensen  says  she'll  take  care  of  her  till 
she  gets  better,"  he  said. 

"That's  the  best  thing  I've  heard,"  commented  Doc 
tor  Barnes.  "That'll  help.  I'll  stay  here  to-night  my 
self.  Gardner,  can  you  run  my  car  down  to  the 
dam?" 

"I  might,"  said  Wid.  "I  never  did  drive  a  car 
much,  but  I  think  I  could.  Mormons  does;  and  I've 
had  a  lot  to  do  with  mowing  machines,  like  them." 

"Well,  get  down  to  the  dam  and  tell  the  people  I 
can't  be  back  until  to-morrow  afternoon.  Here's  where 
I  belong  just  now.  W7here  do  I  sleep,  Gage?" 

"Out  here  in  the  tent,  I  reckon,"  replied  Sim, 
"though  most  all  my  blankets  is  in  there  on  the  bed. 
Maybe  I  kin  find  a  slicker  somewheres.  Wid,  he  ain't 
got  nothing  left  over  to  his  place,  neither." 

"Don't   bother   about   things,"    said   Nels   Jensen. 
160 


SAGEBRUSHERS 

"I'll  go  over  and  bring  some  blankets  from  my  place. 
The  woman'll  take  care  of  that  girl  until  she  gets  in 
better  shape." 

Doctor  Barnes  looked  at  them  all  for  a  time,  frown 
ing  in  his  own  way.  "You  damn  worthless  people," 
said  he  with  sudden  sheer  affection.  "God  has  been 
good  to  you,  hasn't  he?" 

"Now,  ain't  that  the  truth?"  said  Sim  Gage,  per 
haps  not  quite  fully  understanding. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

DONNA   QUIXOTE 

AT  ten  of  the  following  morning  Mrs.  Jensen 
had  finished   "redding  up,"   as   she   called   it, 
and  had  gone  out  into  the  yard.    Doctor  Barnes, 
alone  at  the  bedside  of  his  patient,  was  not  profession 
ally  surprised  when  she  opened  her  eyes. 

"Well,  how's  everything  this  morning?"  he  said 
quietly.  "Better,  eh?" 

She  did  not  speak  for  some  time,  but  tiurned  to 
ward  him.  "Who  are  you?"  she  asked  presently. 

"Nobody  in  particular,"  he  answered.  "Only  the 
doctor  person.  I  was  up  in  the  mountains  with  you 
yesterday." 

"Was  it  yesterday?"  said  she.  "Yes,  I  remem 
ber!" 

"What  became  of  him?"  she  asked  after  a  time. 
"That  awful  man — I  had  it  in  my  heart  to  kill  him !" 

Doctor  Barnes  made  no  comment,  and  after  a  while 
she  went  on,  speaking  slowly. 

"He  said  so  many  things.  Why,  those  men  would 
do  anything?" 

"He'll  not  do  any  more  treason,"  said  Doctor 
Barnes. 

162 


DONNA  QUIXOTE 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"A  tree  fell  on  him.  I  got  there  too  late  to  be 
of  any  use." 

"He's  dead?" 

"Yes.    Don't  let's  talk  of  that." 

"I've  got  to  live?" 

"Yes." 

"Who  are  you?"  she  inquired  after  a  time.  "You're 
a  doctor?" 

"I'm  your  sort,  yes,  Miss  Warren,"  said  he. 

"A  gentleman." 

"Relative  term!" 

"You've  been  very  good.     Where  do  you  live?" 

"Down  at  the  Government  dam,  below  here.  I'm 
the  Company  doctor." 

"Well,  why  don't  you  go?  Am  I  going  to  live,  or 
can  I  die?" 

"What  brought  you  out  here,  Miss  Warren,"  said 
he  at  last.  "You  don't  belong  in  a  place  like  this." 

"Where  then  do  I  belong?"  she  asked.  "Food  and 
a  bed — that's  more  than  I  can  earn." 

"Maybe  we  can  fix  up  a  way  for  you  to  be  useful, 
if  you  don't  go  away."  He  spoke  so  gently,  she  began 
to  trust  him. 

"But  Fm  not  going  away.  I  have  no  place  to  go 
to."  She  smiled  bitterly.  "I  haven't  money  enough 
to  buy  my  ticket  back  home  if  I  had  a  home  to  go  to. 
That's  the  truth.  Why  didn't  you  let  me  die?" 

"You  ought  to  want  to  live,"  said  Doctor  Barnes. 
"The  lane  turns,  sometimes." 

163 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Not  for  me.  Worse  and  worse,  that's  all.  .  .  . 
I'll  have  to  tell  you —  I  don't  like  to  tell  strangers, 
about  myself.  But,  you  see,  my  brother  was  killed  in 
the  war.  We  had  some  money  once,  my  brother  and 
I.  Our  banker  lost  it  for  us.  I  had  to  work,  and 
then,  after  he  went  away,  I  began  to — to  lose  my 
eyes." 

"How  long  was  that  coming  on?" 

"Two  years — about.  The  last  part  came  all  at 
once,  on  the  cars,  when  I  was  coming  out.  I've  never 
seen — him — Mr.  Gage,  you  know.  I  don't  know  what 
he  looks  like." 

"They  call  him  Sim  Gage." 

She  remained  silent,  and  he  thought  best  to  add 
a  word  or  so,  but  could  not,  though  he  tried.  Mary 
Warren's  face  had  colored  painfully. 

"I  SMppose  they've  told  you — I  suppose  everybody 
knows  all  about  that — that  insane  thing  I  did,  coming 
out  here.  Well,  I  was  desperate,  that's  all.  Yet  it 
seems  there  are  good  people  left  in  the  world.  You 
are  all  good  people.  If  only  I  could  see ;  so  I  could  tell 
what  to  do.  Then  maybe  I  could  earn  my  living,  some 
way — if  I  have  to  live. 

"Good-hearted,  isn't  he — Mr.  Gage?"  She  nodded 
with  a  woman's  confident  intuition  as  she  went  on. 
"He  didn't  cast  me  out.  What  can  I  do  to  repay 
him?" 

He  could  make  no  answer. 

"Little  to  give  him,  Doctor — but  of  course,  if  he 

could — in  any  sort  of  justice — accept— accept " 

164 


DONNA  QUIXOTE 

Doctor  Barnes  suddenly  reached  out  a  hand  and 
pushed  her  hair  back  from  her  forehead.  "I 
wouldn't,"  said  he.  "Please  don't.  Take  things  easy 
for  a  little  while." 

She  turned  her  dark  and  sightless  eyes  upon  him. 
"No !"  said  she.  "That  isn't  the  way  we  do  in  my 
family.  We  don't  take  things  easy." 

"Has    he    said    anything   to    you?"    asked    Doctor 
Barnes  after  a  long  time.     "I  have  very  much  re 
luctance  to  ask." 

"He's  too  much  of  a  man,"  she  said.  "No,  not  yet. 
It  was  a  sort  of  bargain,  even  if  we  didn't  say  so 
outright.  'Object,  matrimony !'  I  came  out  here  with 
my  eyes  open.  But  now  God  has  closed  them.  .  .  . 
Will  you  tell  me  the  truth  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Does  he — do  you  think  he " 

"Cares  for  you?" 

"Yes!" 

Doctor  Barnes  replied  with  extreme  difficulty. 
"We'll  say  he  does  care — that  he  cares  immensely." 

She  nodded.  "I  wanted  to  be  fair,"  said  she.  "I'm 
glad  I  can  talk  to  some  one  I  can  trust." 

"What  makes  you  think  you  can  trust  me?"  blus 
tered  Doctor  Barnes.  "And  you're  so  Puritan  fool 
ish,  you're  going  to  marry  this  man?  You  think  that 
is  right?" 

"He  took  me  in,  when  I  deceived  him.  I  owe  my 
life  to  him.  He's  never  once  hinted  or  laughed  since 
i  came  here.  Why,  he's  a  gentleman." 

165 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

She  turned  her  head  away.  "Perhaps  he  would 
never  know,"  she  added. 

"Something  to  take  on,"  commented  Doctor 
Barnes  grimly. 

"I'd  try  very  hard,"  she  went  on.  "I'd  try  to  do 
my  best  Mrs.  Jensen  says  I  could  learn  a  great  many 
things.  She  has  an  aunt  that's — that  has  lost  her 
eyesight.  It  may  be  my  place  in  the  world — here. 
I  want  to  carry  my  own  weight  in  the  world — or  else 
I  want  to  die." 

"He  seems  hard  to  understand — Mr.  Gage,"  she 
went  on  slowly,  the  damp  of  sheer  anguish  on  her 
forehead  now  at  speaking  as  she  never  could  wish  to 
speak,  thus  to  a  stranger,  and  of  the  most  intimate 
things  of  a  gentlewoman's  life.  "As  though  I  didn't 
know  he  couldn't  ever  really  love  a  woman  like  me! 
Of  course  it  isn't  right  either  way.  It's  awful.  .  .  . 
But  I'd  do  my  best.  Life  is  more  of  a  compromise 
than  I  used  to  think  it  was.  But  someway,  out  here — 
I'd  be  shut  in  forever  here  in  this  Valley.  No  one 
would  ever  know.  It — it  wouldn't  seem  so  wicked, 
some  way?  It's  the  end  of  the  world,  isn't  it,  to-day? 
Well,  then " 

"I'm  trying  my  best,"  said  Doctor  Barnes  after  a 
time,  "to  get  at  the  inside  of  your  mind." 

She  lay  for  a  time  picking  at  the  nap  of  the  rough 
blanket — there  were  no  pillow  slips  and  no  pillows. 
At  length  she  turned  to  him,  her  eyes  wet. 

"It's  rather  hard  for  a  man  to  understand  things 
like  these — hard  for  a  woman  to  explain  them  to  a 

166 


stranger  she's  never  seen,"  said  she.  "But  there  wasn't 
ever  any  other  man.  I'm  not  here  on  any  rebound. 
It's  reason — it's  duty.  That's  all.  They  keep  telling 
us  women  we  must  reason.  My  brother  was  all  I 
had  left.  You  see,  he  didn't  have  a  good  foot — he 
was  lame.  That  was  why  we  lived  together  so  long, 
and — and  there  was  no  one  else.  And  then — you 
know  about  my  eyes?  Of  course  I  didn't  know  I  was 
going  to  be  quite  blind  when  I  started  out  here.  If 
I  had,  I  should  have  ended  it  all. 

You're  a  good  man,  Doctor,"  said  she  presently, 
since  he  made  no  answer.  "You  didn't  tell  me  your 
name?" 

"My  name  is  Allen  Barnes.  I've  been  down  at  the 
dam  for  quite  a  while.  I'm  only  around  thirty  yet 
myself.  I  don't  know  a  lot." 

Tell  me  about  the  country — it's  very  beautiful,  isn't 
it?" 

"Yes,  very  beautiful." 

"And  the  people?" 

"If  you  don't  marry  Sim  Gage  they'll  tar  and  feather 
you.  If  you  do,  they'll  back-bite  and  hate  you.  If 
you  get  in  trouble  they'll  work  their  fingers  to  the  bone 
to  take  care  of  you." 

"There  was  another  thing,"  she  resumed  irrel 
evantly,  "I  thought  it  was  a  sacrifice,  my  coming  out 
here  to  work.  I  thought  I  ought  to  make  it  You 
see,  I'm  the  only  one  left  of  all  my  family.  I  couldn't 
count  much  anyway." 

"Donna  Quixote!"  broke  out  Allen  Barnes. 
167 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Oh,  I  suppose,"  said  she,  smiling  bitterly.  "I  sup 
pose  that,  of  course." 

"This  is  a  terrible  thing!  I  don't  believe  I  can 
make  you  change." 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  said  she.  "My  brother  went 
to  France,  crippled  as  he  was.  Do  you  suppose  my 
duty's  going  to  frighten  me  ?  You  were  in  the  army  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  he.  "Mustered  out  a  major.  Medical 
Corps.  In  over  a  year — I  saw  the  last  days — before 
Metz  and  the  armistice.  I'm  a  doctor,  but  they  crowd 
me  into  the  service  again  now,  because  they  think  I'll 
be  safe  and  useful  here.  But  from  what  you  know 
about  things  going  on  in  this  country,  you  know 
there's  danger  for  any  big  public  work  like  that  plant. 
Our  country's  not  mopped  up,  yet — though  it's  going 
to  be!  There  must  be  some  reason  for  suspicion  at 
Headquarters — I  think  we  all  might  guess  why  from 
the  doings  of  the  last  day  or  so  in  here. 

"I'm  glad,"  said  she.  "That  makes  me  feel  much 
better.  I  shall  be  sorry  to  have  you  go  away.  But 
you'll  not  be  so  far.  And  you  were  in  the  war  ?" 

"A  little."  He  laughed,  and  Mary  Warren  tried  to 
laugh.  Then,  hands  in  pockets,  and  frowning,  he  left 
her,  and  walked  apart  in  the  yard  for  a  time. 

Sim  Gage,  his  face  puckered  up,  was  wandering 
aimlessly,  shovel  in  hand,  in  the  vicinity  cf  the  burned 
barn,  engaged  in  burying  his  dead  cattle.  He  had 
relapsed  as  to  his  clothing,  and  was  clad  once  more 
in  his  ancient  nether  garments.  His  arms  were  bare, 
his  brick-red  shoulders  showed  above  a  collarless  and 

168 


DONNA  QUIXOTE 

ragged  flannel  shirt.  His  face,  unreaped,  was  not 
lovable  to  look  on.  When  Doctor  Allen  Barnes  saw 
him,  he  walked  away,  his  head  forward  and  shaking 
from  side  to  side.  He  did  not  want  to  talk  with  Sim 
Gage  or  any  one  else. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   PLEDGE 

WID  GARDNER,  by  some  miracle  of  self-con 
fidence,  did  prove  able  to  drive  a  car  in  son.e 
fashion,  for  he  made  the  round  trip  to  the 
dam  in  good  enough  time.     But  he  had  had  his  trip 
for  nothing ;  for  Doctor  Barnes  now  made  sudden  and 
unexplained  resolution  not  to  remain  longer  at  Sim 
Gage's  ranch.     After  his  departure  in  his  own  car, 
Wid  Gardner  approached  Sim  as  he  stood,  hands  in 
pockets,  in  his  door  yard. 

"Well,"  said  he.  And  Sim,  in  the  succinct  fashion 
of  the  land,  replied  likewise,  "Well";  which  left  honors 
even  conversationally. 

"How's  things  down  below?"  asked  Sim  presently. 

"Sort  of  uneasylike,"  replied  Wid.  "News  had  got 
down  there  that  something's  wrong.  Company  of 
soldiers  is  expected  any  day  from  Kansas.  This  here 
Doc  Barnes  is  the  main  guy  down  there,  a  Major  or 
something.  They're  watching  the  head  engineer  for 
the  Company,  I  believe.  No  one  knows  who's  who. 
A  heap  of  things  has  happened  that  oughtn't  to  hap 
pen,  but  looks  like  Washington  was  getting  on  the 
game. 

170 


THE  PLEDGE 

"Well,  I  got  to  go  over  home  and  look  around," 
he  concluded.  "We've  got  to  do  some  building  be 
fore  long — you  got  to  get  up  another  house  and  barn, 
and  so  have  I." 

"I  don't  see  why,"  said  Sim  Gage  bitterly.  "I  ain't 
got  nothing  to  put  into  a  barn,  ner  I  ain't  got  no  cows 
to  feed  no  hay  to  neither.  I  could  of  sold  the  Gov 
ernment  plenty  hay  this  fall  if  I'd  had  any,  but  now 
how  could  I,  without  no  horses  and  no  money  to  get 
none?  I'm  run  down  mighty  low,  Wid,  and  that's 
the  truth.  Mrs.  Jensen  can't  stay  along  here  always, 
though  Lord  knows  what  we  would  a-done  if  she 
hadn't  come  now.  One  thing's  sure — She  ain't  a-goin' 
to  stay  here  lessen  things  straightens  out.  You  know 
who  I  mean." 

Wid  nodded,  his  face  grave  under  its  grizzled  stub 
ble.  "Yes,"  said  he. 

"Say,"  he  added,  suddenly.  "You  know  that  let 
ter  we  got  fer  her?  Now,  if  that  girl  that  wrote  it, 
that  Annie  Squires,  could  come  out  here  and  get  into 
this  here  game,  why,  how  would  that  be  ?  You  reckon 
she  would?" 

"Naw,  she  wouldn't  come,"  said  Sim  Gage.  "But, 
say,  that  reminds  me — I  never  did  tell  her  about  that 
letter." 

"Better  take  it  in  to  her,"  said  Wid,  turning  away. 

He  walked  towards  the  gate.  After  Sim  had  seen 
him  safely  in  the  distance  he  went  with  laggard  step 
toward  the  door  of  his  own  home. 

Mary  Warren  was  not  asleep.  It  was  her  voice, 
171 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

not  loud,  which  greeted  his  timid  tapping  at  the  half- 
burned  door  frame. 

"Come  in.    Who  is  it?" 

"It's  me,  ma'am,"  said  he;  and  entered  a  little  at 
a  time. 

He  might  have  seen  the  faint  color  rise  to  her  cheek 
as  she  drew  herself  up  in  bed,  to  talk  with  him.  Her 
face,  turned  full  toward  him,  was  a  thing  upon  which 
he  could  not  gaze  direct.  It  terrified  him  with  its 
high  born  beauty,  even  as  he  now  resolved  to  "look 
right  into  her  eyes." 

"You've  not  been  in  to  see  me,  Mr.  Gage,"  said 
she  at  length,  bravely.  "Why  didn't  you  come?  I 
get  awfully  lonesome." 

"Is  that  so?"  said  he.     "That's  just  the  way  I  do." 

"It's  too  bad,  all  this  awful  trouble,"  said  she.  "I've 
been  what  they  call  a  Jonah,  don't  you  think,  Mr. 
Gage?" 

"Oh,  no,  ma'am!" 

"It  was  very  noble  of  you — up  there,"  she  began, 
on  another  tack.  "You  saved  my  life.  Not  worth 
much." 

She  was  smiling  cheerily  as  she  could.  Sim  Gage 
looked  carefully  at  her  face  to  see  how  much  she 
knew. 

"Doctor  Barnes  told  me  that  that  man,  the  one  that 
took  me  away,  was  hurt  by  a  tree;  that  you  got  there 
too  late  to  save  him.  But  to  think,  I'd  have  shot  that 
man.  I  did  try  to  shoot  him,  Mr.  Gage !" 

"Why,  did  you,  ma'am?"  said  Sim  Gage.  "But 
172 


then,  it  would  of  been  a  miracle  if  you  had  a-hit  him, 
your  eyes  being  poor,  like.  I  reckon  it's  just  as  well 
you  didn't." 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  She  motioned  her  hand 
vaguely.  "There's  a  box  right  there." 

"How  do  you  know,  ma'am?" 

"Oh,  I  know  where  everything  is  now.  I'm  going 
to  learn  all  about  this  place.  I  can  do  all  sorts  of 
things  after  a  while — cook  and  sweep  and  wash  dishes 
and  feed  the  chickens,  and — oh,  a  lot  of  things."  It 
was  well  enough  that  he  did  not  see  her  face  as  she 
turned  it  away,  anxious  to  be  brave,  not  succeeding. 

"That  there  looks,  now,  like  you'd  moved  in,"  said 
Sim  Gage.  "Looks  like  you'd  come  to  stay,  as  the 
feller  says."  He  tried  to  laugh,  but  did  not  make 
much  of  it;  nor  did  she. 

"Oh,  I  forgot,"  he  resumed  suddenly,  bethinking 
himself  of  the  errand  which  had  brought  him  hither. 
"I  got  a  letter  fer  you,  ma'am." 

"A  letter?  Why,  that's  strange — I  didn't  know  of 
any  one " 

"Sure,  it's  fer  you,  ma'am.  It's  from  Annie 
Squires." 

"Annie!    Oh !  what  does  she  say ?    Tell  me!" 

Sim  had  the  letter  opened  now,  his  face  puckered. 

"Why,  nothing  very  much,  ma'am,"  said  he.  "I 
can't  exactly  see  what  it  says — light's  rather  poor  in 
here  just  now.  But  Wid,  he  read  it.  And  she  said 
it  was  all  right  with  her,  and  that  she  was  back  in  her 

173 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

little  room  again.  I  reckon  it's  the  room  where  you 
both  used  to  live?" 

"She  isn't  married!    What  did  she  say?" 

"No'm,  not  married.  That's  all  off.  Her  feller 
throwed  her  down.  But  she  says  she  wants  you  to 
write  to  her  right  away  and  tell  her — now — tell  her 
about  things — you  know " 

"What  does  she  say? — Tell  me  exactly  what  she 
said." 

"One  thing" — he  plunged  desperately — "che  said 
she  was  sure  you  was  happily  married.  And  she 
wanted  you  to  tell  her  all  about  your  husband.  But 
then,  good  God  A'mighty !  she  didn't  know !" 

"Well,"  said  Mary  Warren,  her  blood  high  in  her 
face,  "I'll  have  to  tell  her  all  about  that,  won't  I  ?  I'll 
write  to  her  at  once." 

"You'll  write  to  her?    What?" 

— "And  tell  her  how  happy  I  am,  how  fortunate 
I've  been.  I'll  tell  her  how  you  took  me  in  even  though 
I  was  blind;  how  you  saved  my  life;  how  kind  and 
gentle  you've  been  all  along,  where  you  might  have 
been  so  different!  I'll  tell  her  how  fine  and  splendid 
it's  been  of  you  to  take  care  of  a  sick,  blind,  helpless 
girl  like  me;  and  to — to — give  her  a  man's  protection." 

He  was  speechless.  She  struggled  on,  red  to  the 
hair. 

"You  don't  know  women,  how  much  they  want  a 
strong  man  to  depend  on,  Mr.  Gage ;  a  man  like  you. 
Chivalrous?  Why,  yes,  you've  been  all  of  that  and 
more.  I'll  write  to  Annie  and  tell  her  that  I'm  very 

174 


THE  PLEDGE 

happy,  and  that  I've  got  the  very  best — the  very  best — 
husband — in  all  the  world.  I'll  tell  her  that  ?  I'll  say 
that — that  my  husband " 

He  heard  her  sobbing.  He  could  endure  no  more. 
Suddenly  he  reached  out  a  hand  and  touched  hers  very 
gently. 

"Don't,  ma'am,"  said  he.  "Fer  God's  sake  don't 
cry." 

It  was  some  time  after  that — neither  could  have 
told  how  long — that  he  managed  to  go  on,  his  voice 
trembling.  "Do  you  'mean  that,  ma'am?  Do  you 
mean  that,  real  and  for  sure?  You  wouldn't  joke 
with  a  feller  like  over  a  thing  like  that  ?" 

"I'm  not  joking,"  said  she.  "My  God!  Yes,  I 
mean  it." 

His  hand,  broad,  coarse,  thick-fingered,  patted  hers 
a  hundred  times  as  it  lay  upon  the  blankets,  until 
she  got  nervous  over  his  nervousness. 

"It's  too  bad  I  ain't  got  no  linen  sheets,"  said  he 
suddenly.  "But  them  blankets  is  eleven-pound  four- 
points,  at  that.  Of  course,  you  know,  ma'am,"  said 
he,  turning  towards  her,  his  voice  broken,  his  own 
vague  eyes  wet  all  at  once,  "you  do  know  I  only  want 
to  do  whatever  is  the  best  fer  you,  now  don't  you?" 

"Of  course.     I  do  believe  that." 

"And  it  couldn't  run  on  this  way  very  long.  Even 
Mrs.  Jensen  wouldn't  stay  very  long.  Nobody  would 
come.  They'd  like  enough  tar  and  feather  you  and 
me,  people  in  this  Valley,  if  we  wasn't  married.  And 
yet  you  say  you've  got  no  place  to  go  back  to.  You 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

talk  like  you  was  going  to  tell  her,  Annie  Squires, 
that  you  was  married.  She  supposes  it  now,  like 
enough.  If  there  was  any  way,  shape  or  manner  you 
could  get  out  of  marrying  me,  why  of  course  I  wouldn't 
let  you.  But  what  else  is  there  we  can  do?" 

"Some  time  it  would  come  to  that,"  said  Mary 
Warren,  trying  to  dry  her  eyes.  "It's  the  only  way 
fair  to  us  both." 

"Putting  it  that  way,  now!"  said  Sim  Gage,  wisely, 
"putting  it  that  way,  I'm  here  to  say  I  ain't  a-scared 
to  do  nothing  that's  best  fer  you.  And  I  want  to  say 
right  now  and  here,  I  didn't  mean  no  harm  to  you, 
I  swear,  neither  Wid  nor  me  ever  did  dream  that  a 
woman  like  you'd  come  out  here — I  never  knew  such 
a  woman  as  you  was  in  the  whole  world.  I  just  didn't 
know — that  was  all.  You  won't  blame  me  too  much 
fer  gettin'  you  here  into  this  awful  place,  will  you?" 

"No,  I  understand,"  said  she  gently.  "I  think  I 
know  more  about  you  now  than  I  did  at  first." 

"I  ain't  much  to  know,  ma'am.  But  you — why,  if 
I  studied  all  my  life,  I  wouldn't  begin  to  know  you 
hardly  none  at  all."  She  could  not  doubt  the  rever 
ence  of  his  tone,  could  not  miss  the  sweetness  of  it. 
No;  nor  the  sureness  of  the  anchorage  that  it  offered. 

"If  this  is  the  way  you  want  it,"  he  went  on,  "I'll 
promise  you  never  to  bother  you,  no  way  in  the  world. 
I'll  be  on  the  square  with  you,  so  help  me  God!  I'll 
take  care  of  you  the  best  way  I  can,  so  help  me  God! 
I'll  work,  I'll  do  the  best  I  can  fer  you ;  so  help  me 
God!" 

176 


THE  PLEDGE 

"And  I  promise  to  be  faithful  to  you,  Sim  Gage, 
said  she,  using  his  common  name  unconsciously  now. 
"I  swear  to  be  true  to  you,  and  to  help  you  all  I  can, 
every  way  I  can.    I'll  do  my  duty — my  duty.    Do  you 
understand?" 

She  was  pale  again  by  now,  and  trembling  all 
through  her  body.  Her  hands  trembled  on  the 
blankets.  It  was  a  woman's  pledge  she  was  giving. 
And  no  man's  hands  or  lips  touched  hers.  It  was 
terrible.  It  was  terrible,  but  had  it  not  been  thus  she 
could  not  have  endured  it.  She  must  wait. 

"I  understand  a  heap  of  things  I  can't  say  nothing 
about,  ma'am,"  said  Sim  Gage.  "I'm  that  sort  of 
man,  that  can't  talk  very  much.  But  I  understand 
a  heap  mcre'n  I'm  going  to  try  to  say.  Sometimes 
it's  that  way." 

"Sometimes  it's  that  way,"  said  Mary  Warren, 
"yes.  Then  that's  our  promise!" 

"Yes,  it's  a  promise,  so  fer  as  I'm  concerned,"  said 
Sim  Gage. 

"Then  there  isn't  much  left,"  said  she  after  a  time, 
her  throat  fluttering.  She  patted  his  great  hand 
bravely  as  it  lay  upon  the  blankets,  afraid  to  touch  her 
own.  "The  rest  will  be — I  think  the  rest  will  be 
easier  than  this." 

"A  heap  easier,"  said  he.  "I  dreaded  this  more'n 
I  would  to  be  shot.  I  wanted  to  do  the  right  thing, 
but  I  didn't  know  what  was  right.  Won't  you  say  you 
knowed  I  wanted  to  do  right  all  the  time,  and  that  I 
just  didn't  know?  Can't  you  see  that  I'm  sorry  I 

177 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

made  you  marry  me,  because  it  wasn't  no  way  right? 
Can't  you  see  it's  only  just  to  get  you  some  sort  of  a 
home?" 

"I  said  yes,  Sim  Gage,"  said  Mary  Warren. 

"Yes?"  A  certain  exultation  was  in  his  voice.  "To 
me?  All  my  life  everything's  been  no  to  me!" 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his,  pity  rising  in  her  own 
heart.  "I'll  take  care  of  you,"  said  she. 

"I  was  scared  from  the  first  of  any  woman  coming 
out  here,"  said  Sim  Gage  truthfully.  "But  whatever 
you  say  goes.  But  our  gettin'  married !  When  ?" 

"The  sooner  the  better." 

They  both  nodded  assent  to  this,  neither  seeing  the 
other,  for  he  dared  not  look  her  way  now. 

"I'll  go  down  to  the  Company  dam  right  soon," 
said  he.  "Ministers  comes  in  down  there  sometimes. 
Up  here  we  ain't  got  no  church.  I  ain't  been  to  church 
• — well,  scarcely  in  my  whole  life,  but  sure  not  fer 
ten  years.  You  want  to  have  it  over  with,  don't  you, 
ma'am  ?" 

"Yes." 

"That's  just  the  way  I  feel!  It  may  take  a  week 
or  so  before  I  can  get  any  minister  up  here.  But  I 
hope  you  ain't  a-goin'  to  change  ?" 

"I  don't  change,"  said  Mary  Warren.  "If  I  prom 
ise,  I  promise.  I  have  said — yes." 

"How  is  your  bad  knee?"  she  asked  after  a  time, 
with  an  attempt  to  be  of  service  to  him.  "You've 
never  told  me." 

"Swoll  up  twict  as  big  as  it  ought  to  be,  ma'am. 
178 


THE  PLEDGE 

But  how  come  you  to  think  of  that?  You  mustn't 
mind  about  me.  You  mustn't  never  think  of  me 
a-talL" 

"Now,"  he  continued  a  little  later,  the  place  seem 
ing  insufferably  small  to  him  all  at  once,  "I  think 
I've  got  to  get  out  in  the  air."  He  pushed  over  his 
box  seat  with  much  clatter  as  he  rose,  agony  in  every 
fiber  of  his  soul 

"I  suppose  you  could  kiss  me,"  said  Mary  Warren, 
hesitatingly.  "It's — usual."  She  tried  to  smile  as  she 
turned  her  face  toward  him.  It  was  a  piteous  thing, 
a  terrible  thing. 

"No,  ma'am,  thank  you.  I  don't  think  I  will,  now, 
but  I  thank  you  just  the  same.  You  see,  this  ain't  a 
usual  case." 

"Good-by!"  said  Mary  Warren  to  him  with  a  sud 
den  wondering  joy.  "Go  out  and  look  at  the  moun 
tains  for  me.  Look  out  over  the  valley.  I  wish  I 
could  see  them.  And  you'll  come  in  and  see  me  when 
you  can,  won't  you?" 

She  was  talking  to  the  empty  room,  weeping  to  an 
empty  world. 


CHAPTER  XX 

MAJOR    ALLEN    BARNES,    M.D.,    PH.D. AND    SIM    GAGE 

SIM  GAGE'S  reflections  kept  him  wandering 
about  for  the  space  of  an  hour  or  two  in  the 
open  air. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  he,  after  a  time  to  Mrs.  Jensen, 
who  once  more  had  cared  for  their  household  needs, 
"I  reckon  I'll  go  on  down  to  the  dam,  on  the  mail  coach 
this  evening.  You  go  in  and  tell  her,  won't  you? 
Say  I  can't  noways  get  back  before  to-morrow.  I 
got  to  see  about  one  thing  and  another.  She'll  un 
derstand." 

Therefore,  when  the  mail  wagon  came  down  the 
valley  an  hour  later,  Sim  Gage  was  waiting  for  it  at 
the  end  of  his  own  lane.  He  had  meantime  arrayed 
himself  cap-a-pie  in  all  the  new  apparel  he  recently 
had  purchased,  so  that  he  stood  now  reeking  of  dis 
comfort,  in  his  new  hat,  his  new  shoes,  his  tight  col 
lar.  Evidently  something  of  formal  character  was  in 
his  plans. 

It  was  well  toward  midnight  when  the  leisurely 
mail  wagon  arrived  at  the  end  of  its  semi-weekly 
round  and  put  up  at  the  Company  works.  At  that 
hour  the  company  doctor  was  not  visible,  so  Sim  found 

180 


MAJOR  ALLEN  BARNES 

quarters  elsewhere.  It  was  a  due  time  after  breakfast 
on  the  following  morning  before  he  ventured  to  the 
doctor's  office. 

Doctor  Barnes  himself  was  engaged  in  bringing  up 
his  correspondence.  He  was  his  own  typist,  and  at 
the  time  was  engaged  in  picking  out  letter  after  letter 
upon  a  small  typewriter  with  which  he  had  not  yet 
acquired  familiarity.  He  was  occupied  with  two  let 
ters  of  importance.  One  was  going  to  a  certain  med 
ical  authority  of  the  University  from  which  he  him 
self  had  received  his  degree.  It  contained  a  certain 
hypothetical  question  regarding  diseases  of  the  eye, 
upon  which  he  himself  at  the  time  did  not  feel  com 
petent  to  pass. 

The  second  letter  was  one  to  his  new  Chief,  an  offi 
cer  of  the  reclamation  engineers,  at  Washington.  He 
wore  again  to-day  the  uniform  of  a  Major  of  the 
Army.  The  wheels  of  officialdom  were  revolving.  The 
public  quality  of  this  enterprise  was  well  understood. 
That  lawless  elements  were  afoot  in  that  region  was 
a  fact  also  well  recognized.  To  have  this  dam  go  out 
now  would  be  an  injury  to  the  peace  measures  of 
the  country.  Soldiers  were  coming  to  protect  it,  and 
the  soldiers  must  have  a  commander.  In  the  hur 
ried  times  of  war,  when  there  was  not  opportunity 
always  for  exactness,  majors  were  made  overnight 
when  needful  out  of  such  material  as  the  Government 
found  at  hand.  It  might  have  used  worse  than  that 
of  Allen  Barnes  to-day  and  here. 

"Oh,  there  you  are,"  said  he  at  length,  turning 
181 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

around  and  finding  Sim  Gage  standing  in  the  door. 
''What  brought  you  down  here?  Anything  gone 
wrong  ?" 

"Well,  I  ain't  sure,  Doc,"  said  Sim  Gage,  "but  like 
enough.  One  thing,  my  knee  hurts  me  consider 
able."  In  reality  he  was  sparring  for  time.  "But 
you're  dressed  up  for  a  soldier?" 

"Yes.  Sit  down  there  on  the  operating  chair,"  said 
Doctor  Barnes,  tersely.  "We'll  look  it  over.  Any 
thing  happen  to  it?" 

"Why,  nothing  much,"  said  Sim.  "I  hurt  it  a  little 
when  I  was  getting  in  the  mail  wagon  yesterday  even 
ing — busted  her  open.  So  last  night,  when  I  was  go 
ing  to  bed,  I  took  a  needle  and  thread  and  sewed  her 
up  again." 

"What's  that?     Sewed  it  up?" 

"Yes,  I  got  a  needle  and  some  black  patent  thread. 
Do  you  reckon  she'll  hold  all  right  now,  Doctor?" 

Doctor  Barnes  was  standing,  scissors  in  hand,  about 
to  rip  open  the  trouser  leg. 

'No,  you  don't !"  said  Sim.  "Them's  my  best  pants. 
You  just  go  easy  now,  and  don't  you  cut  them  none 
a-tall.  Wait  till  I  take  'em  off." 

The  doctor  bent  over  the  wounded  member.  "You 
put  in  a  regular  button-hole  stitch,"  said  he,  grinning, 
"didn't  you?  About  three  stitches  would  have  been 
plenty.  You  put  in  about  two  dozen — and  with  black 
thread!  Like  enough  poisoned  again." 

"Well,"  said  Sim,  "I  didn't  want  to  take  no  chances 
of  her  breaking  open  again." 

182 


MAJOR  ALLEN  BARNES 

The  doctor  was  busy,  removing  the  stitches,  and 
with  no  gentle  hand  this  time  made  the  proper  surgical 
suture.  "Leave  it  alone  this  way,"  said  he,  "and  mind 
what  I  tell  you.  Seems  like  you  can't  kill  a  man  out 
in  this  country.  You  can  do  things  in  surgery  out  here 
that  you  wouldn't  dare  tackle  back  in  France,  or  in  the 
States.  I  suppose,  maybe,  I  could  cut  your  head 
off,  for  instance." 

"I  wish't  you  would,"  said  Sim  Gage.  "She  both 
ers  me  sometimes." 

After  a  pause  he  continued,  "I  been  thinking  over  a 
heap  of  things.  You  see,  I'm  busted  about  flat.  If  I 
could  go  on  and  put  up  some  hay,  way  prices  is,  I 
could  make  some  money  this  fall,  but  them  damn  rob 
bers  has  cleaned  me,  and  I  can't  start  with  nothing. 
And  I  ain't  got  nothing.  So  there  I  am." 

He  vouchsafed  nothing  more,  but  had  already  said 
so  much  that  Doctor  Barnes  sat  regarding  him  quietly. 

"Gage,"  said  he  after  a  time,  "things  might  be  bet 
ter  in  this  valley.  I  know  that  you'll  stick  with  the 
Government.  Now,  listen.  I'm  going  to  have  prac 
tical  command  here  from  this  time  on.  This  is  under 
Army  control.  I'm  going  to  run  a  telephone  wire  up 
the  valley  as  far  as  your  settlement.  I'll  appoint  you 
a  government  special  scout,  to  watch  that  road.  If 
these  ruffians  are  in  this  valley  again  we  want  to  catch 
them." 

"You  think  I  could  be  any  use  that  way,  Doc?"  said 
Sim. 

"Yes,  I've  got  to  have  some  of  the  settlers  with  me 
183 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

that  I  can  depend  on,  besides  the  regular  detail  or 
dered  in  here." 

"Would  I  be  some  sort  of  soldier,  too,  like?"  de 
manded  Sim  Gage.  "I  tried  to  get  in.  They  wouldn't 
take  me.  I'm — I'm  past  forty-five." 

"You'd  be  under  orders  just  like  a  soldier." 

"Would  I  have  any  sort  of  uniform,  like,  now?" 

Doctor  Barnes  sat  thinking  for  some  time.  "No," 
said  he.  "You  have  to  pass  an  examination  before 
you  really  get  into  the  Army;  and  you're  over  age, 
you  and  Wid,  both  of  you.  But  I'll  tell  you— I'll 
give  you  a  hat — you  shall  have  a  hat  with  a  cord  on 
it,  so  you'll  be  like  a  soldier.  We'll  have  a  green 
service  cord  on  it, — say  green  with  a  little  white  in 
it,  Sim  Gage?  Don't  that  make  you  feel  as  if  you 
were  in  a  uniform?" 

"Now  that'd  sure  be  fine,  Doc,  a  hat  like  that," 
said  Sim.  "I  sure  would  like  that.  And  I  certainly 
would  try  to  do  what  was  right." 

Doctor  Barnes,  still  sitting  before  the  little  white 
operating  table  where  his  surgical  instruments  lay, 
was  looking  thoughtful.  "In  all  likelihood  I  shall 
have  to  put  a  corporal  and  four  men  up  at  your  place. 
That  means  they'll  have  to  have  a  house.  I  can  com 
mandeer  some  of  the  teams  down  here,  and  some  men, 
and  they'll  all  throw  in  together  and  help  you  build 
an  extra  cabin.  You  and  they  can  live  in  that,  I 
suppose  ?" 

"I  reckon  we  could,"  said  Sim  Gage.  "That'd  be 
fine,  wouldn't  it?" 

184 


MAJOR  ALLEN  BARNES 

"And  as  those  men  would  need  horses  for  their  own 
transport,  they'd  need  hay.  We'd  pay  you  for  hay. 
I  don't  see  why  we  couldn't  leave  one  wagon  and  a 
team  at  least  up  there,  to  get  in  supplies.  That  would 
help  you  in  getting  things  started  around  on  your 
place  again,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Would  it,  Doc?"  said  Sim  Gage,  brightening  im 
mensely.  "It  would  raise  a  load  offen  me,  that's  what 
it  would !  Right  now,  especial."  He  cleared  his  throat. 

"That  there  brings  me  right  around  to  what  I  come 
down  here  to  talk  about,"  said  he  with  sudden  resolu 
tion.  "For  instance,  there  was  a  letter  come  to  her 
up  there — from  back  where  she  lived — from  Annie 
Squires.  So  her  an<$  me  got  to  talking  over  that  let 
ter,  you  see." 

"What  did  Annie  Squires  say,  if  it's  any  of  my 
business?"  said  the  Doctor,  looking  at  him  steadily. 

"Well,  I  was  just  talking  things  over,  that  way, 
and  we  allowed  that  maybe  Annie  Squires  could  come 
out  here — after — well,  after  the  wedding,  you  see." 

It  was  out !    Sim  Gage  wiped  off  his  brow. 

"The  wedding?" 

"Why,  one  thing  and  other,  her  and  me  got  to  talk 
ing  things  over.  Things  couldn't  run  on;  so  we — we 
fixed  it  up." 

"Gage,"  said  Doctor  Barnes  suddenly,  "I've  got  to 
talk  to  you." 

"Well,  all  right,  all  right,  Doc.  That'll  be  all  right. 
I  wish't  you  would." 

"See  here,  man.     Don't  you  realize  what  that  wo- 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

man  is?     She's  too  good  for  men  like  you  and  me." 

"Yes,  Doc.  But  I  wouldn't  never  raise  hand  nor 
voice  to  her,  the  least  way  in  the  world.  I  allowed 
she  could  live  along  as  my  housekeeper,  but  seems 
not.  You  can  shoot  me,  Doc,  if  you  don't  think  I'm 
a-doing  the  right  thing  by  her  in  every  way,  shape 
and  manner." 

"She's  too  good — it's  an  impossible  thing." 

Sim  Gage's  face  was  lifted,  seriously.  "Doc,  you 
know  mighty  well  that's  true,  and  so  do  I — she's 
plumb  too  good  for  me.  But  it  ain't  me  done  all  the 
thinking." 

"Didn't  you  ask  her  about  it? 

"It  kind  of  come  around." 

Doctor  Barnes  rose  and  paced  rapidly  up  and  down 
within  the  narrow  confines  of  his  office.  "You  do  love 
her,  don't  you?" 

Sim  Gage  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  felt  the  secret 
quick  of  his  simple,  sensitive  soul  cut  open  and  ex 
posed  to  gaze.  Not  even  the  medical  inan  before  him 
could  fail  of  sudden  pity  at  witnessing  what  was  writ 
ten  on  his  face — all  the  dignity,  the  simplicity,  the 
reticence,  all  the  bashfulness  of  a  man  brought  up 
helplessly  against  the  knife.  He  could  not — or  per 
haps  would  not — answer  such  a  question  even  trom 
the  man  before  him,  whom  he  suddenly  had  come  to 
trust  and  respect  as  a  being  superior  to  himself. 

But  Allen  Barnes  was  the  pitiless  surgeon  now.  "I 
don't  care  a  damn  about  you,  of  course,  Gage.  You're 
not  fit  for  her  to  wipe  her  shoes  on,  and  you  know  it. 

186 


MAJOR  ALLEN  BARNES 

But  she  can't  see  it  and  doesn't  know  it.  If  she  could 
see  you — what  do  you  suppose  she'd  think?  Gage — 
she  mustn't  ever  know!" 

Sim  Gage  looked  at  him  quietly.  "Every  one  of 
them  words  you  said  to  me,  Doc,  is  plumb  true,  and 
it  ain't  enough.  I  told  her  my  own  self,  that  first  day, 
and  since  then,  it  was  a  blessing  she  was  blind.  But 
look-a-here,  I  reckon  you  don't  understand  how  things 
is.  You  say  you're  going  to  build  a  house  up  there, 
and  help  me  get  a  start.  That's  fine.  Because  hers 
is  the  other  one,  my  old  house.  I  wish't  I  could  get 
some  sheets  and  pillow  cases  down  here  while  I'm 
right  here  now — I'd  like  to  fix  her  up  in  there  bet- 
ter'n  what  she  is.  I'd  even  like  to  have  a  tablecloth, 
like.  But  you  understand,  that's  for  her,  not  me. 
That's  her  house,  and  not  mine.  She  can't  see.  It's 
a  God's  blessing  she  can't.  And  what  you  said  is  so — 
she  mustn't  ever  know,  not  now  ner  no  time,  what — • 
Sim  Gage  really  is." 

Doctor  Barnes'  voice  was  out  of  control.  He  turned 
once  more  to  this  newly  revealed  Sim  Gage,  a  man 
whom  he  had  not  hitherto  understood. 

"Marriage  means  all  sorts  of  things.  It  covers  up 
things,  begins  things,  ends  things.  That's  true." 

"It  ends  things  for  her,  Doc — it  don't  begin  noth 
ing  fer  me,  you  understand.  It  is,  but  it  isn't.  I'd 
never  step  a  foot  across  that  door  sill,  night  or  day — 
you  understand  that,  don't  you?  You  didn't  think 
that  for  one  minute,  did  you  ?  You  didn't  think  I  was 
so  low-down  I  couldn't  understand  a  thing  like  that, 

187 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

did  you?  It's  because  she's  blind  and  don't  know 
the  truth;  and  because  she's  plumb  up  against  it 
That's  why." 

"Oh,  damn  you!"  said  Doctor  Barnes  savagely. 
"You  understand  me  better  than  I  did  you.  Yes — it's 
the  only  way." 

"It  sure  is  funny  how  funny  things  get  mixed  up 
sometimes,  ain't  it,  Doc?"  remarked  Sim  Gage.  "But 
now,  part  of  my  coming  down  here  was  about  a  min 
ister." 

"Well,"  said  Doctor  Barnes,  desperately,  feeling 
that  he  was  party  to  a  crime,  "it's  priest  day  next 
Sunday.  We  have  five  or  six  different  sorts  of  priests 
and  ministers  that  come  in  here  once  a  month,  and  they 
all  come  the  same  Sunday,  so  they  can  watch  each 
other — every  fellow  is  afraid  the  other  fellow  will  get 
some  souls  saved  the  wrong  way  if  he  isn't  there  on 
the  job  too.  Listen,  Gage — I'll  bring  one  of  these 
chaps — Church  of  England  man,  I  reckon,  for  he 
hasn't  got  much  to  do  down  here — up  to  your  ranch 
next  Sunday  morning.  We've  got  to  get  this  over 
with,  or  we'll  all  be  crazy — I  will,  anyhow.  When  I 
show  up,  you  two  be  ready  to  be  married. 

"Does  that  go,  Sim  Gage?"  he  concluded,  looking 
into  the  haggard  and  stubbly  face  of  the  squalid-fig 
ured  man  before  him. 

"It  goes,"  said  Sim  Gage. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WITH  THIS  RING 

IT  was  the  Sabbath,  and  the  summer  sun  was  cast 
ing  its  southering  light  even  with  the  eaves  of 
Sim  Gage's  half-ruined  house.  It  was  high  noon. 

High  noon  for  a  wedding.  But  this  was  a  wedding 
of  no  pomp  or  splendor.  No  bell  summoned  any 
hither.  There  was  no  organ  peal,  nor  maids  with 
flowers  and  serious  faces  to  wait  upon  the  bride;  no 
processional;  no  aisles  fenced  off  with  bride's  ribbon; 
no  audience  to  crane.  In  the  little  room  stood  only 
a  surpliced  priest  of  the  Church  of  England.  The 
witnesses  were  Nels  Jensen  and  Karen,  his  wife,  back 
of  whom  was  Wid  Gardner,  near  to  him  Doctor 
Barnes.  Those  made  all  present,  now  at  high  noon. 
And  Sim  Gage,  trembling  very  much,  stood  at  the 
side  of  a  bed  where  Mary  Warren  lay  propped  up  in 
the  blankets  to  speak  her  wedding  words. 

"Dearly  beloved,  we  are  gathered  together,"  began 
the  holy  man;  and  so  the  ceremony  went  on  in  the 
lofty  words  which  some  inspired  man  has'' written  for 
the  most  solemn  of  all  ceremonies. 

'Dearly  beloved  .  .  .     Dearly  beloved  1 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Who  giveth  this  woman  in  marriage  ?"  went  on  the 
deep  voice  of  the  minister  at  last,  himself  strangely 
moved.  Indeed,  it  had  only  been  after  a  long  consulta 
tion  with  Doctor  Barnes  that  he  had  been  willing  to 
go  on  with  this  ceremony.  "Who  giveth  this  woman 
in  marriage?" 

Sim  Gage  had  no  idea  of  the  marriage  ceremony 
of  the  Church  of  England  or  of  any  other  church.  As 
for  Doctor  Barnes,  the  matter  had  been  too  serious 
for  him  to  plan  details.  But  now,  seeing  the  exigency, 
he  stepped  forward  quickly  and  offered  himself  as 
the  next  friend  of  Mary  Warren,  orphaned  and  friend 
less. 

The  ceremony  went  on  until  it  came  to  that  portion 
having  to  do  with  the  ring — for  this  was  Church  of 
England,  and  full  ceremony  was  used. 

"With  what  token?"  began  the  voice  of  the  man 
of  God.  Sim  Gage's  eyes  were  raised  in  sudden  ques 
tion.  Neither  he  nor  Doctor  Barnes,  quasi  best  man, 
had  ever  given  thought  to  this  matter  of  the  ring. 
But  again  Doctor  Barnes  was  able  to  serve.  Quickly 
he  slipped  off  the  seal  ring  from  his  own  finger  and 
passed  it  to  Sim  Gage.  The  gentle  hand  of  the  church- 
ly  official  showed  him  how  to  place  it  upon  the  finger 
of  Mary  Warren,  who  raised  her  own  hand  in  his. 

So  finally  it  was  over,  and  those  solemn  ofttimes 
mocking  words  were  said :  "Whom  God  hath  joined 
together  let  no  man  put  asunder!"  And  then  the  sur- 
pliced  minister  of  the  church  prayed  God  to  witness 
and  to  bless  this  wedding  of  this  man  and  this  wo- 

190 


WITH  THIS  RING 

man;  that  prayer  which  sometimes  is  a  mockery  be 
fore  God. 

There  was  at  least  one  woman  to  weep,  and  Karen 
Jensen  wept.  She  left  the  place  and  ran  out  the  door 
into  the  open  sunlight,  followed  soon  by  her  husband 
and  Wid  Gardner. 

Sim  stood  for  a  moment  undecided.  He  did  not 
stoop  even  now  to  greet  his  wife  with  that  saluta 
tion  usual  at  this  moment.  The  group  at  the  bedside 
broke  apart.  The  bride,  white  as  a  ghost,  dropped 
back  on  her  blankets.  It  was  a  godsend  that  at 
this  instant  Tim,  the  little  dog,  broke  in  the  door,  bark 
ing  and  overjoyed,  welcoming  the  company,  and  mak 
ing  a  diversion,  which  saved  the  moment. 

Sim  bent  and  picked  up  the  little  animal. 

"He's  glad,"  said  he.  With  a  vague  and  gentle  pat 
of  the  blankets  in  the  general  direction  of  Mary  Gage, 
his  wife,  he  turned,  head  bent,  and  tip-toed  out  into 
the  sunlight. 

Karen  Jensen  interrupted  any  conversation,  having 
dried  her  tears.  "Come  on  back  in  five  or  ten  min 
utes,"  she  said.  "I'll  have  the  wedding  breakfast 
ready.  I've  baked  a  cake." 

When  they  had  eaten  of  the  cake,  which  they  all 
agreed  was  marvelous,  the  minister  gladly  repacked  his 
vestments  in  his  traveling  bag  preparatory  to  his  jour 
ney  back  with  Doctor  Barnes.  He  turned,  after  a  gen 
tle  handshake,  saying :  "Good-by,  Mrs.  Gage."  Sim 
Gage,  bridegroom,  suddenly  flushed  dark  under  his 
brick-red  skin  at  hearing  these  words. 

191 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

Karen  Jensen  finished  her  labors  attendant  upon 
the  wedding  breakfast,  and  made  ready  for  her  own 
departure.  Wid  Gardner  likewise  found  reason  for  a 
visit  to  his  own  homestead.  Mary  Gage  was  left 
alone,  and  ah !  how  white  a  bride  she  was. 

Sim  Gage  stood  outside  his  own  door,  looking  at 
the  departing  figures  of  Nels  and  Karen  Jensen  cross 
ing  the  meadow  toward  their  home;  turning  to  catch 
sight  of  Wid,  though  the  latter  was  no  longer  visible. 
In  desperation  he  looked  upon  a  sky,  a  landscape, 
which  for  the  first  time  in  all  his  life  seemed  to  him 
ominous.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Sim  Gage,  sage- 
brusher,  man  of  the  outlands,  felt  himself  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MRS.  GAGE 

TEN  days  after  the  wedding  at  Sim  Gage's  ranch, 
the  mistress  of  that  establishment,  sitting  alone, 
heard  the  excited  barking  of  the  little  dog  in 
the  yard,  and  the  sound  of  a  motor  passing  through 
the  gate.  Instinctively  she  turned  toward  the  window, 
as  the  car  stopped.  She  heard  a  voice  certainly  fa 
miliar  and  welcome  as  well. 

"Well,  how  do  you  do  this  morning?  And  how 
is  everything?"  It  was  Doctor  Barnes  saluting  her. 
He  came  up  to  the  unscreened  window  where  she 
stood,  and  stood  there  for  a  time  with  one  or  other 
like  remark,  before  he  passed  around  the  house  and 
came  in  at  the  door. 

"You're  alone?"  said  he. 

"Why,  yes,  Mr.  Gage  has  gone  over  to  Mr.  Gard 
ner's.  They're  getting  out  some  building  material." 

"Mrs.  Jensen  gone  home  too?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I'm  mistress  of  the  house.  I  wonder  how 
it  looks?" 

"You'd  be  surprised!"  said  Doctor  Barnes,  crypti 
cally. 

He  sat  down,  hat  on  knee,  silent  for  a  time,  mu- 
193 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

sing,  looking  at  the  pathetically  beautiful  face  of  the 
woman  before  him. 

"You'd  never  get  any  of  your  own  philosophy 
second  hand,"  said  he  at  length. 

She  smiled  faintly.  "No,  I'm  not  given  to  hys 
teria,  if  that's  what  you  want  to  say." 

"Women  do  strange  things.  But  not  your  sort — 
no." 

"You  don't  call  this  strange — what  I've  done?" 

"No,  it  was  inevitable — for  you." 

She  seated  herself  on  the  bed,  hands  in  lap.  How 
fine  it  was  to  hear  a  voice  like  his,  to  meet  a  brain 
like  his,  keen,  broad,  educated,  here  in  this  place! 

"No,  you've  not  read  books  to  get  your  own  phi 
losophy  of  life.  So  you  can  reason  about  things." 

"I  don't  think  you're  very  merciful  to  me,"  said 
Mary  Gage. 

"Why,  yes.  God  has  shut  your  eyes  to  our  new 
and  distracted  world.  This  new  world? — you  ought 
to  be  thankful  that  you  cannot  see  it.  I  wish  I  did 
not  have  to  see  it.  But  you  don't  want  to  hear  me 
talk?  You  don't  want  philosophizing?  I'm  afraid 
I'm  not  very  happy  in  my  philosophy  after  all." 

He  rose,  hands  in  pockets,  and  tried  to  pace  up 
and  down  the  narrow  little  room. 

"Don't  move  the  chairs,  please,"  said  she.  "I  know 
where  they  all  are  now." 

He  laughed,  and  again  seated  himself. 

"You  know  why  I've  come  up?     I  suppose  Sim 
194 


MRS.  GAGE 

has  told  you  that  we're  going  to  have  a  soldier  post 
here  in  your  yard?" 

"Yes,  I  was  glad  of  that — it  seemed  like  company." 

"It  will  make  you  feel  a  great  deal  safer.  And 
did  your  husband  tell  you  that  I'm  going  to  be  a 
person  of  consequence  now?  I'm  a  Major  again,  not 
just  plain  doctor." 

"There  must  have  been  reason.  The  Government 
is  alarmed?" 

"Yes.  Our  chief  engineer  Waldhorn — well,  he's 
still  a  German-American,  to  put  it  mildly.  Told  me 
three  times  he  had  bought  fifteen  thousand  dollars' 
worth  of  Liberty  Bonds.  I  fear  German-Americans 
buying  bonds!  And  I  know  Waldhorn's  a  red  So 
cialist — Bolshevik — if  they  make  them." 

"If  they  doubt  him,  why  don't  they  remove  him?" 

"If  he  knew  he  was  suspected — bang!  up  might 
go  the  dam.  I  hardly  need  say  that  you're  to  keep 
absolutely  quiet  about  all  this.  I  tell  you  because  I 
can  trust  you.  As  for  me,  I'm  a  pretty  busy  little 
doctor  right  now — cook  and  the  captain  bold,  and  the 
mate  of  the  Nancy  brig.  Within  a  week  we'll  have 
a  telephone  line  strung  up  here.  My  men  will  be 
here  to-morrow  morning  to  begin  work  with  the  build 
ing.  Suppose  I  had  a  chance  to  get  you  a  woman 
companion  out  here.  Would  you  be  glad?" 

"Please  don't  jest." 

"Well,  I've  sent  for  your  old  friend,  Annie 
Squires!"  said  she. 

"Annie!    Why — no!    She  wrote  to  me " 

195 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Yes,  I  know.  And  I  wired  her.  She's  coming 
on  out.  She  has  left  Cleveland  to-day.  I'm  going 
to  meet  her  myself  at  the  station,  and  bring  her  out. 
If  she  can  cook  she  can  get  on  the  pay  roll.  Odd, 
how  you  two  came  to  meet " 

— "Why,  cook? — work? — of  course  Annie  could! 
Of  course — she'd  be  happy.  She's  alone,  like  myself 
— but  not  married." 

"And  she'll  find  you  happily  married,  as  she  said 
in  the  letter.  You  are  happily  married?  I  beg  your 
pardon,  but  he's — he's  been  considerate?" 

"More.  Chivalrous.  He  wrote  me  at  first  that  I 
might  expect  to  find  a  'chivalrous  ranchman,  of  ample 
means.'  That's  true,  isn't  it?" 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  silent.  "Yes,"  said  he,  "I 
believe  I'll  say  that's  true ! 

"You  think  this  Annie  person  can  cook?"  he  added. 

"Of  course!  Oh,  do  you  suppose  she  really  is  com 
ing?" 

"If  I'm  going  to  be  a  Major  again  I'm  going  to 
have  plenary  powers!" 

"Well,  Major,"  she  smiled  slowly  at  last,  "you 
seem  to  have  a  way  of  ordering  things!  Tell  me 
about  yourself.  I  mean  about  you,  yourself,  person 
ally.  I've  no  way  of  getting  the  commonest  notion 
of  people  any  more.  It's  very,  very  hard." 

He  went  on  quickly,  warned  by  the  quiver  of  her 
lips.  "All  right,"  said  he.  "I'll  fill  out  my  question 
naire.  This  registrant  is  Barnes,  Major  Allen,  age 
thirty-one,  Medical  Corps,  assigned  to  special  service 

196 


MRS.  GAGE 

Engineers'  detail,  power  dam  of  the  Transcontinental 
Light  and  Power  Company;  graduate  of  Johns  Hop 
kins;  height  eleven  feet  five  inches — you  see,  I've  felt 
all  of  that  tall  ever  since  I  got  to  be  a  Major.  Eyes, 
gray;  hair,  sandy.  Mobility  of  chest,  four  and  a 
half  inches.  Features,  clean-cut  and  classical.  Good 
muscular  development.  Stature,  erect  and  robust. 
Blood  pressure,  128.  Pulse,  full  and  regular.  Habits, 
very  bad.  Three  freckles  on  left  hand." 

"Dear  me!"  she  said,  smiling  in  spite  of  all,  and 
thus  evincing  definitely  a  certain  dimple  in  her  left 
cheek  which  now  he  noticed  in  confirmation  of  his 
earlier  suspicion.  "Bad  habits?" 

"Well,  I  smoke,  and  everything,  you  know.  Majors 
have  to  be  regular  fellows." 

"You're  rather  pleasant  to  talk  to !" 

"Very!" 

"You  know,  you  seem  rather  a  manny  sort  of  man 
to  me — do  you  know  what  I  mean?" 

"I'm  glad  you  think  so." 

"And  I  owe  you  a  great  deal,  Major — or — Doc 
tor." 

"Please  don't  make  yourself  a  continuous  trial  bal- 
ajice  all  the  time.  Don't  be  thinking  of  sacrifices  and 
duties — isn't  there  some  way  we  can  plan  just  to 
get  some  plain  joy  out  of  life  as  we  go  along?  I 
believe  that's  my  religion,  if  I've  got  any." 

"I  often  wish  I  could  see  the  mountains,"  said  she, 
vaguely. 

He  rose  suddenly.  "Come  with  me,  then!  I'll 

197 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

take  you  out  into  the  sunlight.  I'll  tell  you  all  about 
the  mountains.  I'll  show  you  something  of  the  world. 
I  couldn't  live  out  here  if  it  wasn't  for  the  sheer 
beauty  of  this  country.  It's  wonderful — it's  so  beau 
tiful." 

"What  was  it  you  put  down  by  the  door  as  you 
came  in?"  she  asked  of  him  curiously. 

He  turned  to  her  with  like  curiosity.  "How  do 
you  know?"  said  he.  "Are  you  shamming?  That 
was  my  fishing  rod  and  my  fish  basket  I  put  down 
there;  but  I  didn't  think  you'd  know  anything  about 
it." 

"I'm  beginning  to  have  abnormally  acute  senses, 
I  suppose.  That's  necessity." 

"Nature  is  a  very  wonderful  old  girl,"  said  Doctor 
Barnes.  "But  come  now,  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to 
go  down  to  the  stream  with  me  and  have  a  try  about 
those  grayling.  I  told  Sim  Gage  I  was  going  to 
some  time,  and  this  will  be  about  my  last  chance.  If 
we  have  any  luck  I'll  show  you  there's  something  in 
this  country  beside  bacon  and  beans." 

"I'd  love  to,"  said  Mary,  eagerly.  "Why,  that'll 
be  fine!" 

She  rose  and  went  directly  to  her  sunbonnet,  which 
hung  upon  a  nail  in  the  wall — the  sunbonnet  which 
Mrs.  Jensen  had  fashioned  for  her  and  promised 
her  to  be  of  much  utility.  But  she  stumbled  as  she 
turned. 

"I  can  tell  where  the  window  is,  and  the  door," 
198 


MRS.  GAGE 

said  she,  breathlessly.  "I  miss  the  reading-  most  of 
all — and  friends.  I  can't  see  my  friends." 

"Well,  your  friends  can  see  you,  and  that's  much 
of  a  consolation,"  said  Major  Allen  Barnes.  "I  stare 
shamelessly,  and  you  never  know.  Come  along  now, 
and  we'll  go  fishing  and  have  a  bully  time." 

He  took  her  arm  and  led  her  out  into  the  brilliant 
sunlight,  across  the  yard,  across  the  little  rivulet  which 
made  down  from  the  spring  through  the  thin  fringe  of 
willows,  out  across  the  edge  of  the  hay  lands  to  the 
high,  unbroken  ridges  covered  with  stubby  sage  brush 
which  lay  beyond  between  the  meadows  and  the  river. 
The  little  Airedale,  Tim,  went  with  them,  bounding 
and  barking,  running  in  a  hundred  circles,  finding  a 
score  of  things  of  which  he  tried  to  tell  them. 

It  was  no  long  walk,  no  more  than  a  half  mile  in 
all,  but  he  stopped  frequently  to  tell  her  about  the 
country,  to  explain  how  blue  the  sky  was  with  its  small 
white  clouds,  how  inviting  the  long  line  of  the  moun 
tains  across  the  valley,  how  sweet  the  green  of  the 
meadows  and  the  blue-gray  of  the  sage.  She  was 
eager  as  a  child. 

"The  river  is  that  way,"  said  she  after  a  while. 

"How  do  you  know  ?" 

"I  can  feel  it — I  can  feel  the  water.  It's  cooler 
along  the  stream,  I  suppose." 

"Well,  you've  guessed  it  right,"  said  he.  "There's 
going  to  be  quite  a  world  for  you,  so  don't  be  dis 
couraged.  Yes,  that's  the  river  just  ahead  of  us— ~ 

loo 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

my  word!  it's  the  prettiest  river  that  ever  lay  out  of 
doors  in  all  the  world." 

"I  can  hear  it,"  said  she,  pausing  and  listening. 

"Yes — that's  where  it  breaks  over  a  little  gravel  bed 
up  yonder,  fifty  yards  from  us.  And  here,  right  in 
front  of  us,  we  are  at  the  corner  of  the  bend,  and  it's 
deep — twelve  feet  deep  at  least.  And  then  it  bends  off 
to  the  left  again,  with  willows  on  this  side  and  grassy 
banks  on  the  other  side.  And  the  water  is  as  clear 
as  the  air  itself.  You  can  see  straight  down  into  it. 

"And  look — look!"  he  said,  as  he  stood  with  her, 
catching  her  by  the  wrist  at  the  brink.  "Down  in  this 
hole,  right  before  us,  there's  more  than  a  million  gray 
ling — there's  four  hundred  billion  of  them  right  down 
in  there,  and  every  one  of  them  is  eight  feet  long! 
Sim  Gage  was  right — I'll  bet  some  of  them  do  weigh 
three  pounds.  It  must  be  right  in  the  height  of  the 
summer  run.  What  a  wonderful  country !" 

"Here,  now,"  he  went  on,  "sit  right  here  on  the 
grass  on  my  coat.  Lie  down,  you  Tim !  That's  right, 
boy — I  can't  stand  this  any  longer — I've  got  to  get 
busy." 

Hurriedly  he  went  about  jointing  his  rod,  putting 
on  the  reel,  threading  the  line  through  the  guides, 
while  she  sat,  her  hand  on  the  dog's  shaggy  head. 

She  felt  something  placed  in  her  lap.  "That's  my 
fly  hook,"  said  he.  "I'm  asking  you  to  look  at  it. 
Hundreds  of  them,  and  no  two  alike,  and  all  the 
nineteen  colors  of  the  rainbow.  I'm  going  to  put  on 
this  one — see — it's  dressed  long  and  light,  to  look 

200 


MRS.  GAGE 

like  a  grasshopper.  Queen  of  the  Waters,  they  call 
it." 

"Listen !"  said  she  suddenly,  raising  a  finger.  "What 
was  that?" 

"What  was  it?  Nothing  in  the  world  except  the 
biggest  grayling  I  ever  saw!  He  broke  up  there 
just  at  the  head  of  the  pool  where  the  water  runs  deep 
under  the  willows,  just  off  the  bar.  If  I  can  get  this 
fly  just  above  him — wait  now — sit  perfectly  still  where 
you  are." 

He  passed  up  the  stream  a  few  paces  and  began 
to  cast,  measuring  the  distance  with  the  fly  still  in  the 
air.  She  could  hear  the  faint  whistle  of  the  line,  and 
some  idea  of  what  he  was  doing  came  to  her.  And 
then  she  heard  an  exclamation,  synchronous  with  a 
splash  in  the  pool. 

"Got  him!"  said  he.  "And  he's  one  sockdollager, 
believe  me!  We've  got  hold  of  old  Grandpa  Gray 
ling  now — and  if  things  just  hold " 

"Here,"  said  he  after  a  while.  She  felt  the  rod 
placed  in  her  hand,  felt  a  strenuous  tugging  and  pulling 
that  almost  wrenched  it  away. 

"Hold  tight!"  said  he.  "Take  the  line  in  your  left 
hand,  this  way.  Now,  if  he  pulls  hard,  ease  off.  Pull 
in  when  you  can — not  too  hard — he's  got  a  tender 
mouth.  Let  him  run!  I  want  you  to  see  what  fun 
it  is.  Can't  you  see  him  out  there  now,  jumping?" 

Tim,  eager  for  any  sport,  sprang  up  and  began  to 
bark  excitedly.  Her  lips  parted,  her  eyes  shining, 
sightless  as  they  were,  Mary  faced  toward  the  splash- 

201 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

ing  which  she  heard.  She  spoke  low,  in  a  whisper,  as 
though  afraid  of  alarming  the  fish.  "Where  is  he?" 
she  said.  "Where  did  he  go?" 

"He's  out  there,"  responded  her  companion,  chuck 
ling.  "He's  getting  rattled  now.  Don't  hold  him  too 
tight — that's  the  idea — work  him  along  easy  now. 
Now  shorten  up  your  line  a  little  bit,  and  sit  right 
where  you  are.  I'm  going  to  net  him.  Lift  the  tip 
of  the  rod  a  little,  please,  and  bring  him  in  toward 
you." 

She  obeyed  as  best  she  could.  Suddenly  she  heard 
a  splash,  and  felt  a  flopping  object  placed,  net  and 
all,  directly  in  her  lap.  With  eagerness  she  caught 
it  in  her  hands,  meeting  Tim's  towsley  head,  engaged 
in  the  same  errand,  and  much  disposed  to  claim  the 
fish  as  all  his  own. 

"There's  Grandpa !"  said  Doctor  Barnes.  "I've  lost 
my  bet  to  Sim  Gage — that  fellow  will  go  over  three 
pounds.  I  didn't  know  there  was  such  a  grayling  in 
the  world." 

"And  now  tell  me,"  said  he,  as  she  felt  him  lift 
the  fish  from  her  lap,  and  with  woman's  instinct 
brushed  away  the  drops  of  water  from  her  frock, 
"isn't  life  worth  living  after  all,  when  you  have  a  day 
like  this,  and  a  sky  such  as  we  have,  and  sport  like 
this?" 

He  looked  at  her  face.  There  was  less  droop  to 
the  corners  of  her  mouth  than  he  ever  had  seen. 
There  was  a  certain  light  that  came  to  her  features 
which  he  had  not  yet  recognized.  She  drew  a  long 


MRS.  GAGE 

breath  and  sighed  as  she  dropped  her  hands  into 
her  lap.  "Do  you  suppose  we  could  get  another  one?" 
said  she. 

He  laughed  exultantly.  "I  should  say  we  could! 
Just  sit  still  where  you  are,  and  we'll  load  up  again." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  grayling  were  rising  freely, 
and  in  a  moment  or  so  he  had  fastened  another  which 
he  added  to  the  one  in  the  basket.  This  one  she 
insisted  that  he  land  alone,  so  that  he  might  have  all 
the  sport.  And  thus,  he  generously  sharing  with  her, 
they  placed  six  of  the  splendid  fish  in  the  basket, 
and  he  declared  they  had  enough  for  the  time. 

"Come,"  said  he,  "we'll  go  back  now." 

She  reached  out  a  hand.  "I  want  to  carry  the  fish," 
said  she.  "Let  me,  please.  I  want  to  do  something." 

He  passed  the  basket  strap  over  her  shoulder  for 
her,  Tim  following  on  behind,  panting,  as  guardian  of 
the  spoils.  "You're  a  good  sport,"  said  Major  Barnes. 
"One  of  the  best  I  ever  saw,  and  I  saw  a  lot  of  them 
over  there." 

She  was  stumbling  forward  through  the  sage  as 
best  she  might,  tripping  here  and  there,  sweeping  her 
skirts  now  and  again  from  the  ragged  branches  which 
caught  against  them.  He  took  her  hand  in  his  to  lead 
her.  It  lay  light  and  warm  in  his  own — astonishingly 
light  and  warm,  as  suddenly  he  realized.  She  had 
pushed  the  sunbonnet  back  from  her  forehead  as  she 
would  have  done  had  she  been  desirous  of  seeing  bet 
ter.  Pie  noted  the  color  of  her  cheeks,  the  regularity 
of  her  features,  the  evenness  of  her  dark  brows,  the 

203 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

wholly  pleasing  contour  of  her  figure,  as  she  stumbled 
bravely  along  at  his  side. 

"You're  fine !"  he  repeated,  suddenly.  "You're  fine ! 
I  expect  to  see  you  live  to  bless  the  day  you  came 
here.  I  expect  to  hear  you  say  yet  that  you're  glad 
you're  alive — not  alive  just  because  it  was  your  duty 
to  live.  Don't  talk  to  me  any  more  about  duty." 

He  was  striding  along  excitedly.  "Not  too  fast!" 
she  panted,  holding  fast  to  his  hand. 

And  so  they  came  presently  to  the  cabin  door  again, 
and  saw  Sim  Gage  perched  high  on  a  load  of  logs, 
coming  down  the  lane. 

"I'm  going  to  put  the  new  cabin  for  the  men  right 
over  there,"  said  Doctor  Barnes.  "And  when  Annie 
Squires  comes — why,  we're  going  to  have  the  grandest 
little  ranch  here  you  ever  saw.  And,  of  course,  I  can 
telephone  up  every  once  in  a  while." 

"Telephone?"  said  she  vaguely.  "Then  you  won't 
be  coming  up  yourself?" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   OUTLOOK 

DOCTOR  BARNES  was  making  ready  to  de 
part  when  Sim  Gage  came  in  at  the  gate  with 
his  load  of  logs.  They  exchanged  greetings, 
Sim  regarding  his  visitor  rather  closely. 

"We've  just  got  back  from  fishing,"  said  Doctor 
Barnes. 

"Yes,  I  seen  you  both,  down  in  the  medders." 

"We  had  one  grand  time,  brother.  Look  here." 
He  opened  the  lid  of  his  basket. 

"All  right,"  said  Sim.  "We'll  cook  'em  for  sup 
per.  Some  folks  like  'em.  There's  need  for  about 
everything  we  can  get.  I  reckon  God's  forgot  us  all 
right" 

"Cheer  up!"  rejoined  his  guest.  "I  was  just  think 
ing  God  was  in  His  heaven  to-day.  Well,  thank  you, 
old  man,  for  that  fishing.  That's  the  finest  grayling 
water  in  the  whole  world.  I've  lost  my  bet  with  you. 
May  I  come  up  again  some  time  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sim  Sage,  "sometimes, — when  you 
know  I'm  around.  Come  again,"  he  added,  some 
what  formally,  as  they  shook  hands.  "I'll  be  around." 

He  turned  toward  his  house  as  soon  as  he  saw  the 
205 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

car  well  off  in  the  lane.  He  found  his  wife  sitting 
with  her  face  turned  toward  the  window. 

"He's  just  about  going  aound  the  corner  now," 
said  she,  following  the  sound  of  the  car.  And  then, 
presently,  "And  how  are  you,  sir?  You've  been  gone 
a  long  while." 

Sim  had  seated  himself  awkwardly  on  a  chair,  his 
hat  on  his  knee.  "Have  a  good  time  down  in  the 
medder?"  he  asked  presently.  "He  told  me  you  was 
fishing." 

"Oh,  yes,  and  we  caught  some  whoppers  too. 
They'll  be  good  to  eat,  I'm  sure." 

"Yes,  I  expect  you'll  like  them."  He  seemed  for 
some  reason  less  than  ordinarily  loquacious,  and  sud 
denly  she  felt  it. 

"Tell  me,"  said  she,  turning  squarely  towards  him 
writh  a  summoning  of  her  own  courage.  "Why  are 
you  away  all  the  time?  It's  been  more  than  a  week, 
and  I've  hardly  seen  you.  You're  away  all  the  time. 
Am  I  doing  wrong  in  any  way?" 

"Why,  no." 

"I  don't  mean  to  cry — it's  just  because  I'm  not 
used  to  things  yet.  It's  hard  to  be  blind.  But — I 
meant  all  I  said — then.  Don't  you  believe  me?" 

"I  know  you  did,"  said  he,  simply.  But  still  the 
awkward  silence,  and  still  her  attempt  to  set  things 
more  at  ease. 

"Why  don't  you  come  over  here  close  to  me?"  said 
she,  with  an  attempt  dutiful  at  least.  "How  can  I 
tell  anything  about  you?  You've  never  even  touched 

206 


THE  OUTLOOK 

me  yet,  nor  I  you.  You've  never  even — I've  never 
had  any  real  notion  of  how  you  look,  what  you  are  like. 
I  never  saw  your  picture.  It  was  an  awful  thing  of 
me  to  do." 

"Are  you  sorry?" 

"But  any  woman  wants  to  see  her  husband,  to  know 
what  he  is,  what  he  looks  like.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I 
wonder.  And  I  don't  seem  to  know — and  can't  learn. 
Tell  me  about  yourself,  won't  you?  What  sort  of 
looking  man  are  you?  What  are  you  like?" 

"I  ain't  like  nothing  much,"  said  Sim  Gage.  "I 
ain't  much  for  looks.  Of  course,  I  suppose  women  do 
kind  of  want  to  know  what  men  folks  is  like,  that 
way.  I  hadn't  thought  of  that,  me  being  so  busy— 
and  me  being  so  pleased  just  to  look  at  you,  and  not 
even  thinking  of  your  looking  at  me."  He  struggled 
in  saying  these  words,  so  brave  for  Sim  Gage  to  ven 
ture. 

"Yes?    Can't  you  go  on ?" 

I  ain't  so  tall  as  some,  but  I'm  rather  broad  out, 
and  right  strong  at  that.  My  eyes  is  sort  of  dark, 
like,  with  long  lashes,  now,  and  I  got  dark  hair,  in  a 
way  of  speaking — and  I  got  good  features.  I  dunno 
as  I  can  say  much  more."  Surely  he  had  been  guilty 
of  falsehood  enough  for  one  effort.  But  he  did  not 
know  he  lied,  so  eager  was  he  to  have  favor  in  her 
eyes. 

"That's  fine!"  said  she.  "I  knew  all  along  you 
were  a  fine-looking  man — the  Western  type.  We 
women  all  admire  it,  don't  you  know?  And  I'd  like 

207 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

to  see  you  in  the  Western  dress  too.  I  always  liked 
that.  But,  tell  me,  what  can  you  do?  What  do 
you  do?  Do  you  read  out  here  much?  Do  you  have 
anything  in  the  way  of  music?  I  used  to  play  the 
piano  a  little." 

Sim  moved  about  awkwardly  on  his  chair.  "I 
ain't  got  around  to  getting  another  pianny  since  I 
moved  in  here.  Maybe  we  can,  some  day,  after  the 
hay  gets  turned.  I  used  to  play  the  fiddle  some,  but 
I  ain't  got  no  fiddle  now,  neither.  Some  play  the 
fiddle  better'n  what  I  do.  A  mouth  harp's  a  good 
thing  when  you're  alone  a  good  deal.  Most  any  one 
can  play  a  mouth  harp  some.  Lots  of  fellers  do  out 
here,  nights,  of  winters." 

"Is  there  anything  else  you  can  do?"  she  asked, 
bravely,  now.  The  utter  bleak  barrenness  of  the 
man  and  his  life  came  home  to  her,  struggling  with 
her  gratitude,  her  sense  of  duty. 

He  thought  for  a  time  before  he  spoke.  "Why,  yes, 
several  things,  and  I'm  sorry  you  can't  see  them  things, 
too.  For  instance,  I  can  tie  a  strong  string  around 
my  arm,  and  bust  it,  just  doubling  up  my  muscle.  I'm 
right  strong." 

"That's  fine!"  said  she.  "Isn't  it  odd?  What  else, 
then?"  She  smiled  so  bravely  that  he  did  not  sus 
pect.  "Mayn't  I  feel  the  muscle  on  your  arm?" 

Hesitatingly,  groping,  she  did  put  out  her  hand.  By 
chance,  as  he  shifted  back,  afraid  of  her  hand,  it 
touched  the  coarse  fabric  of  his  shirt  sleeve.  Had  it 
fallen  further  she  might  have  felt  his  arm,  bare; 

208 


THE  OUTLOOK 

might  have  discovered  the  sleeve  itself  to  be  ragged 
and  fringed  with  long-continued  use.  But  she  did  not 
know. 

"Oh,  you're  just  in  your  working  clothes,  aren't 
you?"  she  said.  "So  this  is  the  West  I  used  to  read 
about,"  she  said  musing.  "Everything  Western — even 
the  way  you  talk.  Not  like  the  people  back  East  that 
I  used  to  know.  Is  every  one  out  here  like  you?" 

"No,  not  exactly,  maybe,"  said  he.  "Like  I  said, 
you'd  get  tired  of  looking  at  me  if  that's  all  there  was 
to  do." 

She  broke  out  into  laughter,  wholly  hysterical, 
which  he  did  not  in  the  least  understand.  He  knew 
the  tragedy  of  her  blindness,  but  did  not  know  that 
he  himself  was  tragic. 

"You  are  odd,"  said  she.  "You've  made  me  laugh." 
She  both  laughed  and  wept. 

"You  see,  it's  this  way,"  he  went  on  eagerly.  "It's 
all  right  in  the  summer  time,  when  you  can  get  out 
of  doors,  and  the  weather  is  pleasant,  like  it  is  now. 
But  in  the  winter  time — that's  when  it  gets  lonesome! 
The  snow'll  be  eight  feet  deep  all  around  here.  We 
have  to  go  on  snow  shoes  all  the  winter  through.  Now, 
if  we  was  shut  in  here  alone  together — or  if  you  was 
shut  in  here  all  by  yourself,  and  still  lonesomer,  me 
being  over  in  the  other  house  mostly — the  evenings 
would  seem  awful  long.  They  always  used  to,  to  me." 

She  could  not  answer  at  all.  A  terrible  picture  was 
coming  before  her.  He  struggled  on. 

"If  that  Annie  Squires  girl  came  out  here,  she'd 
209 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

be  a  lot  of  help.  But  how  can  you  tell  whether  she'd 
stay  all  winter  ?  That's  the  trouble  with  women  folks 
— you  can't  tell  what  they'll  do.  She  wouldn't  want 
to  stay  here  long  unless  she  was  settled  down  some 
way,  would  she?  She  ain't  married,  like  you,  ma'am. 
She  might  get  restless,  like  enough,  wouldn't  she?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mary  Gage,  suddenly  turning 
away.  She  felt  a  vast  cloud  settling  down  upon  her. 
Ten  days?  She  had  been  married  ten  days!  What 
would  ten  years  mean? 

"I  wish  I  didn't  have  to  think  at  all,"  said  she,  her 
lips  trembling. 

"So  do  I,  ma'am,"  said  Sim  Gage  to  his  lawful 
wedded  wife  with  engaging  candor.  "I  sure  do  wish 
that" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

ANNIE  MOVES  IN 

THE  hum  of  a  motor  at  the  gate  brought  Mary 
Gage  to  the  window  once  more,  the  third  morn 
ing  after  Doctor  Barnes'  visit.  It  was  Doctor 
Barnes  now,  she  knew.  She  could  not  see  that  he  now 
helped  out  of  the  car  a  passenger  who  looked  about 
her  curiously,  more  especially  at  the  figure  of  Sim 
Gage  who,  hands  in  pockets,  stood  gazing  at  them  as 
they  drove  into  the  yard. 

"Listen,"  said  Doctor  Barnes  under  his  breath  to 
the  young  woman,  "that's  the  man — that's  Sim  Gage. 
Don't  show  surprise,  and  don't  talk.  Remember  what 
I've  told  you.  For  God's  sake,  play  the  game!" 

Sim  Gage  slowly  approached  the  car,  and  the  doc 
tor  accosted  him.  "This  is  Miss  Squires,  Mr.  Gage," 
said  he,  "the  young  woman  we  have  been  expecting." 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,"  said  Sim,  after  the  fashion 
of  his  extremest  social  formality.  And  then,  in  a 
burst  of  welcome,  "How'd  you  like  it,  coming  out?" 

"Fine!"  said  Annie,  dusting  off  her  frock. 
"Lovely." 

She  paid  no  attention  to  Sim  Gage's  words,  "Go 
right  on  in.  She's  anxious  to  see  you,"  but  hurried 

211 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

on,  muttering  to  herself,  "Ain't  it  the  limit?  And 
her  blind!" 

She  stopped  for  an  instant  at  the  door,  staring  into 
the  dim  interior,  then  with  a  cry  rushed  in.  Mary, 
stone  blind,  stood  staring,  trembling.  The  two  met 
in  swift  embrace,  mingled  their  tears. 

"Oh,  Mary,  it  can't  be !"  said  Annie  after  a  time. 
"It  will  get  well,  won't  it  ?  Say,  now — your  eyes  will 
come  back,  won't  they?  How  did  you  get  here — 
what  did  you  do?  And  you're  married!" 

"Yes,"  said  Mary  Gage,  "that's  true." 

"Oh,  then,"  said  Annie  Squires,  pulling  herself  to 
gether  with  resourcefulness,  "that  was  your  husband 
out  in  the  yard,  that  fine-looking  man !  I  was  in  such 
a  hurry.  You  lucky  thing!  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
more  about  him,  Mary  ?  He  has  such  a  pleasant  way. 
I  don't  mind  men  being  light  complected,  or  even  bald. 
He's  fine!" 

"I  think  so,"  said  Mary.     "You  like  him?" 

"Why,  how  could  any  one  help  liking  him,  Sis?" 
demanded  Annie,  choking.  "Of  course.  So  this  is 
where  you  live?" 

"Yes,  this  is  my  home,"  said  Mary  Gage.  "And 
then  you're  not  disappointed  in  him?  I'm  so  glad! 
I've  never  seen  him — my  husband.  You're  joking 
about  the  color  of  his  hair,  of  course." 

"You'll  have  to  help  yourself,  Annie,"  she  went 
on,  having  no  reply.  "I'm  not  of  much  use.  I've 
learned  a  few  things  and  I  help  a  little.  You  can  see 

212 


ANNIE  MOVES  IN 

about  everything  there  is,  I  suppose,  at  one  look.   Isn't 
it  nice?" 

"Couldn't  be  better,"  said  Annie  Squires,  again 
choking  back  her  tears.  "You  certain  are  the  lucky 
kid.  And  he — he  married  you  after  he  saw  you  was 
blind?" 

"It  was  a  strange  thing  for  a  man  to  do,"  said 
Mary  Gage,  slowly.  "Yes, — but  fine." 

"I'm  glad  you've  done  so  well.  This  will  settle  a 
heap  of  things,  won't  it,  Mary?" 

"Some  things." 

The  step  of  Doctor  Barnes  was  heard  at  the  door. 
Mary  Gage  called  out,  asking  him  to  come  in.  Some 
talk  then  followed  about  the  domestic  resources  of  the 
place,  in  which  Annie  was  immediately  interested. 

"But  I've  got  four  hens,"  said  Mary  Gage,  smiling. 

"Well,  it  seems  to  be  a  right  cheerful,  friendly  sort 
of  place,  don't  it?"  said  Annie  after  a  while,  "where 
they  come  in  and  kill  the  cattle  and  horses  and  burn 
the  house,  and  run  away  with  people !"  She  was  look 
ing  at  the  burned  door  jamb  of  Sim  Gage's  cabin 
as  she  spoke.  Doctor  Barnes  had  told  her  the  story 
of  the  raid. 

"Who's  that  coming  in?"  she  remarked  after  a 
time,  having  caught  sight  through  the  window  of  an 
approaching  figure. 

"That's  your  neighbor,  Wid  Gardner,"  said  Doctor 
Barnes. 

"He's  taller  than  some,"  said  Annie  after  a  time. 
"Gee,  ain't  he  plain !  And  ain't  he  sunburned !" 

213 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

Wid  Gardner  himself  presently  approached  the 
door,  to  be  suddenly  taken  aback  when  he  met  the 
somewhat  robust  and  blooming  young  person  who 
had  just  arrived. 

"You've  knew  Mrs.  Gage  for  some  time  ?"  he  man 
aged  to  say  at  last,  to  make  conversation,  after  he 
also  had  declared  himself  pleased  to  meet  the  new 
comer. 

"Lived  together  for  years,"  said  Annie.  "Only  real 
pal  I  ever  had.  I  took  care  of  her  the  best  I  knew 
how.  I'm  going  to  keep  on."  A  certain  truculence 
was  in  her  tone. 

Wid  Gardner  and  Annie  Squires  soon  found  them 
selves  together  and  somewhat  apart,  for  she  beckoned 
him  to  meet  her  outside  the  cabin. 

"Say,  Mister,"  said  she  to  him  suddenly,  "tell  me, 
— are  you  the  man  that  wrote  them  letters  to  us  girls  ? 
I  know  he  never  done  nothing  like  that."  She  in 
dicated  Sim  Gage,  who  stood  staring  vacuously  at 
her  trunk,  which  still  stood  upon  the  ground  near  the 
car. 

Wid  Gardner  flushed  deeply.  "I  ain't  saying  one 
way  or  the  other,"  said  he.  "But  I  know  the  letters 
went,  all  right.  Like  enough  we  both  ought  to  of 
been  shot  for  it." 

"You  know  it,  and  you  said  it!" 

"But  now,  Miss  Squires,"  he  went  on,  "we  didn't 
ever  really  suppose  that  anybody  would  answer  our 
fool  letters.  We  never  did  realize  that  a  girl  would 
actual  be  so  foolish,  way  that  one  was." 

214 


ANNIE  MOVES  IN 

"Fine  business,  wasn't  it,  you  men — to  treat  a  good 
clean  girl  like  that!  Look  at  that!"  Again  she  in 
dicated  Sim  Gage,  withering  contempt  in  her  tone. 

"Who's  going  to  run  this  place?"  she  demanded. 
"She  can't." 

"I  dunno,"  said  Wid  Gardner  vaguely.  "You  won't 
be  going  back  right  away,  will  you?" 

"Not  any  quicker n  God'll  let  me!"  said  Annie 
Squires.  Which  struck  poor  Wid  silent. 

Doctor  Barnes  and  Sim  had  passed  to  the  other 
side  of  the  premises,  where  the  little  group  of  men 
who  had  come  in  the  day  previous,  and  had  pitched 
their  tent  in  the  yard,  were  engaged  in  laying  up  the 
logs  of  the  cabin  which  was  to  be  the  quarters  of 
the  men  stationed  here.  There  were  a  half  dozen  of 
them  in  all,  a  corporal,  four  privates,  and  a  carpen 
ter  impressed  from  the  Company  forces  to  supervise 
[he  building. 

"In  a  week  you  won't  know  the  place,  Sim,"  said 
the  doctor.  "They'll  run  this  house  up  in  jig  time. 
With  two  bunk  rooms  and  a  dining  room  and  a 
kitchen,  there'll  be  plenty  of  room.  I'll  see  that  it's 
furnished.  Gardner  can  stay  here  until  he  gets  time 
to  build  on  his  own  place.  That  girl  that  came  out 
with  me  is  a  good  sort,  as  big-hearted  as  they  make 
them.  It's  a  godsend,  her  coming  out.  She  told  me 
she  could  cook,  and  would  be  glad  to  have  a  job. 
If  your  wife  can  keep  busy,  it  will  be  all  the  better 
for  them  both." 

"But  now,  I  told  you  I'd  put  you  on  the  pay  roll. 

2T-, 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

Gage,"  he  concluded.  "I  want  you  to  act  as  a  scoiu 
here,  to  keep  watch  on  this  road  and  the  cross  road 
into  the  Reserve.  When  I  was  in  town  I  got  you 
a  hat — regulation  O.  D., — with  a  green  cord  around 
it,  as  I  told  you.  Go  on  over  to  the  car  and  get  it 
— it's  yours." 

Sim  walked  slowly  over  to  the  car  and  peered  in 
at  the  new  head  gear.  He  took  it  up  gingerly  by  the 
rim,  regarding  the  green  cord  with  curiosity.  Half 
reverently  he  placed  it  on  his  head.  A  vast  new  pride 
came  to  him  at  that  moment.  Never  before  had  he 
taken  on  any  badge  of  authority,  known  any  sort  of 
singling  out  or  distinction  in  all  his  drab,  vague  life. 
No  power  ever  had  sent  to  him  a  parchment  en 
graved  "placing  special  confidence  in  your  loyalty 
and  discretion."  But  even  his  mind  divined  that  now 
in  some  way  he  did  represent  the  authority  and  gov 
ernment  of  his  country,  that  some  one  had  placed  con 
fidence  in  his  loyalty  and  discretion.  If  not,  why  this 
green  cord  on  his  hat  ? 

"When  you  wear  that,  Gage,"  said  Doctor  Barnes 
sharply  to  him,  "you  button  up  your  shirt  and  roll 
down  your  sleeves,  do  you  understand?  You  shave 
and  you  wash  clean  every  morning.  You  comb  your 
hair  and  keep  it  combed.  If  I'm  cast  away  as  Major 
of  this  desert  island  out  here  I'm  going  to  be  the  law 
and  the  gospel.  And  the  first  thing,  Sim  Gage,  that 
a  soldier  learns  is  to  be  neat  Think  of  that  cord 
on  your  hat !" 

216 


ANNIE  MOVES  IN 

"Doc,"  said  Sim  Gage,  "that's  just  what  I  am  a- 
thinking  of." 

"Well,  I've  got  to  go  on  back  to  the  dam.  I  sup 
pose  those  two  women  can  take  care  of  themselves 
somehow  now." 

"I  wish't  you  wouldn't  go  away,"  said  Sim  uneasily. 
"One  woman  is  bad  enough — but  now  there's  two  of 
them." 

"Two  won't  be  as  much  trouble  as  one,"  said  Doc 
tor  Barnes. 

As  he  turned  he  saw  standing  in  the  door  a  figure 
which  to  him  suddenly  seemed  pathetic.  It  was  Mary 
Gage.  She  was  looking  out  now  vaguely.  He  did 
not  even  go  over  to  say  good-by. 

In  the  meantime  Annie  Squires,  not  backward  in 
her  relations  with  mankind,  again  engaged  Wid  Gard 
ner  in  conversation  as  they  stood  at  the  edge  of  the 
3rard,  and  Wid's  downcast  head  bespoke  his  lack  of 
happiness  at  what  he  heard. 

"I  never  in  all  my  born  days  saw  a  joint  like  this," 
said  Annie,  her  dark  eyes  snapping.  "It  ain't  fit 
for  cowboys — it  ain't  fit  for  nobody.  Her  married 
to  him!  And  how  on  earth  are  we  going  to  keep 
it  from  her?  If  she  ever  knew — my  God!  it  would 
break  her  heart — she'd  kill  herself  now  if  she  knew 
the  truth.  Man,  you  don't  know  that  girl — you  just 
think  she's  a  common,  ordinary  woman,  don't  you? 
You  can't  understand  a  woman  like  that,  you  people. 
She  just  thought  it  was  her  duty  to  get  married.  Her 
duty — do  you  get  me? — her  du-ty!  It's  a  crime  when 

217 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

a  woman  like  that  gets  that  sort  of  bugs  in  their 
nut.  Well,  what  could  I  do?  I  figured  if  she  could 
marry  and  get  a  good  home  it  would  be  the  best  thing 
for  her.  Do  you  know  what  us  two  girls  done? — 
we  flipped  a  copper  to  see  which  one  of  us  should 
have  the  chance.  Wasn't  that  a  fine  thing  to  do? 
Well,  she  won — and  look  at  that !" 

She  again  pointed  to  Sim  Gage,  who  stood  hands 
in  pocket,  looking  after  Doctor  Barnes'  departing 
car.  "Look  at  him!  Is  he  human  or  ain't  he?  He 
ain't  got  but  one  gallus,  and  I  bet  he  ain't  been  shaved 
for  a  week.  His  clothes  may  fall  off  him  any  min 
ute.  He's  past  forty-eight  if  he's  a  day.  Say,  man, 
leave  me  take  the  ax  and  go  kill  that  thing  right  away ! 
I  got  to  do  it  sometime.  Do  you  get  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Wid  Gardner,  somewhat  agitated,  "yes, 
there's  a  heap  of  truth  in  what  you  say.  There  ain't 
no  use  in  me  denying  not  a  single  thing.  All  I  go', 
to  say  is  we  didn't  never  mean  to  do  what  this  here 
has  turned  out  to  be.  But  now  you've  come  out  here, 
too,  and  in  some  ways  it  makes  it  harder  to  keep 
things  quiet.  You  don't  look  to  me  like  you  was 
easy  to  be  right  quiet.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
about  it  your  own  self?" 

"I've  told  you  what  I'm  going  to  do  about  it.  Just 
as  soon  as  the  Lord'll  let  us,  I'm  going  to  take  her 
out  of  here.  Do  you  think  I'm  one  of  them  sort 
that'll  set  down  and  let  the  world  walk  over  me,  and 
say  I  like  it?  Oh,  no,  not  sister  Annie !  I  ain't  blind." 

"Say,  Mister,"  said  she  a  moment  later  as  he  main- 
218 


ANNIE  MOVES  IN 

tained    disconsolate    silence,   "they    call    you    Wid. 
What's  your  real  name?" 

"My  name  is  Henry,"  remarked  her  companion. 
"They  only  call  me  Wid  for  short." 

"Huh!  Well,  now,  Henry,  go  get  some  wood  for 
supper.  Cut  it  short  enough  so  the  door'll  shut  tight. 
And  fetch  in  another  pail  of  water — water's  apt  to 
get  bad,  standing  around  that  way.  And  while  you're 
out  along  this  little  creek  pull  some  of  this  water  cress 
and  bring  it  in — didn't  you  know  it's  good  to  eat? 
And,  Henry,  if  you've  got  any  cows,  you  see  that 
one  of  them  is  brought  over  here,  and  a  churn — we 
got  to  have  some  butter.  We  got  to  get  a  garden 
started  even  if  it  is  a  little  bit  late.  And,  Henry, 
listen,  them  hens  got  to  have  some  kind  of  a  door 
to  their  coop — they're  just  walking  around  aimless. 
And  I  want  you  to  get  a  collar  for  that  little  dog — 
I'm  going  to  see  if  I  can  learn  it  to  lead  Mary  around. 
There's  a  heap  of  things  have  got  to  be  done  here. 
How  long  you  been  living  here  yourself?" 

'Why,  I  don't  live  here  a-tall,"  said  Wid,  aghast, 
at  the  new  duties  which  seemed  to  be  crowding  upon 
him.  "That's  my  place  over  there  acrosst  the  fence. 
I  just  strolled  over  in  here  to-day.  They  burned  me 
out." 

"You  two  was  neighbors,  huh  ?  And  I  suppose  you 
both  set  around  and  figured  out  that  fine  little  game 
about  advertising  for  a  wife?  Well,  you  got  one,  any 
way,  didn't  you?" 

"Well,  this  ain't  my  place — Sim  lives  here." 
219 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"You  don't  suppose  I'd  ask  him  to  do  anything,  do 
you?"  said  Annie  Squires.  "He's  no  good.  I  tell 
you  he'll  be  playing  in  luck  if  I  don't  break  loose 
and  read  the  law  to  him." 

"Well,  now,"  said  Wid,  apologetically,  "I  wouldn't 
start  any  too  strong  right  at  first.  There  ain't  nothing 
he  wouldn't  do  for  her — nothing  in  the  whole,  wide 
world." 

"But  now,  about  you,"  he  added — "I'm  glad  you've 
come.  It  looks  sort  of  like  you  was  going  to  move 
in,  don't  it?" 

"You've  said  it,"  said  Annie. 

Wid  Gardner  looked  at  her  curiously,  and  meekly 
went  about  his  new  duties  regarding  wood  and  water. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ANOTHER    MAN'S   WIFE 

REVOLUTION,  and  not  less,  had  occurred  with 
in  a  month  at  Sim  Gage's  ranch.  This  was 
not  so  much  evidenced  by  the  presence  of  a 
hard-bitten  corporal  and  his  little  army  of  four  men; 
nor  so  much  more  by  the  advent  of  Annie  Squires; 
neither  was  it  proved  by  the  new  buildings  that  had 
risen  so  quickly ;  nor  by  the  appearance  of  new  equip 
ment.  It  was  not  so  much  in  the  material  as  in  the  in 
tangible  things  of  life  that  greatest  change  had  come. 

Karen  Jensen  smiled  now  as  she  talked  with  her 
new  friend,  Annie  Squires.  Even  Mary  Gage,  for 
some  reason,  had  ceased  to  weep.  But  the  main 
miracle  was  in  the  instance  of  Sim  Gage  himself. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  hat  which  did  it,  with  its  brave 
cord  of  green,  humblest  of  all  the  insignia  of  those 
who  stand  at  the  threshold  of  the  Army.  To  Sim's 
vague  soul  it  carried  a  purpose  in  life,  knowledge  that 
there  was  such  a  thing  as  service  in  the  world.  Daily 
his  face  now  was  new-reaped,  his  hands  made  clean. 
He  imitated  the  erectness  and  alertness  of  these  young 
soldiers  whom  he  saw,  learned  the  jerk  of  the  elbow 
in  their  smart  salute.  Enriched  by  a  pair  of  cast-off 

221 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

breeches,  and  the  worn  leggins  thereto,  he  rode  now 
with  both  feet  in  the  stirrups  and  looked  square  be 
tween  his  horse's  ears.  Strong  as  are  many  lazy  men, 
not  cowardly,  and  therefore  like  many  timid  men,  he 
rode  straight,  with  his  campaign  hat  a  trifle  at  one  side, 
like  to  the  fashion  of  these  others. 

And  he  wished  that  She  might  see  him  now,  in 
his  new  uniform.  He  wondered  if  she  knew  how  much 
larger  and  more  important  a  man  he  was  now.  Into 
the  pleached  garden  of  his  life  came  a  new  vision  of 
the  procession  of  the  days;  and  he  was  no  longer 
content.  He  saw  the  vision  of  a  world  holding  the 
cares  and  duties  of  a  man. 

That  this  revolution  had  come  to  pass  was  by  rea 
son  of  the  presence  of  this  blind  woman  who  walked 
tap-tapping,  led  by  a  little  dog;  a  blind  woman  who 
for  some  reason  had  begun  to  smile  again. 

As  for  Doctor  Barnes,  he  had  been  the  actual  agent, 
to  be  sure.  This  new  order  of  things  was  the  product 
of  his  affirmative  and  initiating  mind.  Mary  Gage, 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  within  a  few  weeks, 
learned  his  step  as  surely  as  his  voice,  could  have  told 
you  which  was  his  car  had  a  dozen  come  into  the 
yard  at  the  same  time.  Therefore,  on  this  certain 
morning,  she  knew  his  voice,  when,  after  stopping 
his  car  in  the  dooryard,  he  called  out  to  the  men 
before  he  approached  the  door  of  her  own  home. 
It  was  then  that  Mary  Gage  did  something  which  she 
never  yet  had  done  when  she  had  heard  the  step  and 
voice  of  her  lawful  lord  and  master — something  she 

222 


ANOTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

had  not  done  since  her  arrival  here.  Blind,  she  turned 
unconsciously  to  the  mirror  which  she  knew  Annie 
had  hung  on  the  wall!  She  smoothed  back  her  hair, 
felt  for  the  corners  of  her  collar  to  make  it  neat.  She* 
really  did  not  know  that  she  did  these  things. 

She  was  young.  Life  was  still  buoyant  in  her 
bosom,  after  all,  and  far  more  now  than  at  any  time 
in  her  life.  New  graciousness  of  face  and  figure  be 
gan  to  come  to  her.  Well-being  appeared  in  her  eye 
and  her  cheek.  The  clean  air  of  this  new  world  had 
done  its  work,  the  actinic  sun  had  painted  her  with  the 
colors  of  the  luckier  woman,  who  expects  to  live  and 
to  be  loved.  It  was  a  lovely  face  she  might  have 
seen  in  yonder  mirror — a  face  flushed  as  she  heard 
this  step  at  the  door. 

"Greetings  and  salutations!"  said  he  as  he  entered. 
"Of  course  you  know  who  I  am." 

"I'm  trained  in  hide-and-seek,"  said  she.  "Sit 
down,  won't  you?" 

He  tossed  his  hat  on  the  table.    "Alone?"  he  asked. 

"I  always  am.  Annie  is  busy  almost  all  day,  over 
at  the  soldier  house,  you  know." 

"I  suppose  he  is  up  in  the  hills  to-day?" 

She  knew  whom  he  meant.  "Yes.  Annie  tells  me 
he  goes  up  every  other  day  to  look  around.  I  should 
think  he  would  be  afraid." 

"Annie  told  you? — doesn't  he  tell  you  what  he 
does?" 

"No.  Sometimes  in  the  evening  he  conies  in  for  a 
moment." 

223 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Well,  of  course,"  he  went  on,  "in  my  capacity  as 
Pooh  Bah,  Major  and  doctor  too,  I've  got  to  be  part 
medico  to  take  care  of  the  poor  devils  who  blow  off 
their  hands  or  drop  things  on  their  feet,  or  eat  too 
much  cheap  candy  at  the  store.  How  is  Sim's  knee  by 
this  time?" 

"He  limps  a  little — I  can  hear  it  when  he  walks 
on  the  boards.  Annie  says  that  Wid  Gardner  says 
that  Sim  says  that  his  leg's  all  right."  She  smiled,  and 
he  laughed  with  her. 

"That's  fine.  And  how  about  Madam  herself,  Mrs, 
Gage?" 

She  shivered.  "I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  that. 
It — well,  don't,  please.  Let's  not  ever  joke." 

"What  shall  I  call  you?" 

"I  don't  know.  What's  wrong  here,  Doctor?"  She 
faced  him  now. 

He  evaded.    "I  was  wondering  about  your  health." 

"Oh,  I'm  very  well.  Sometimes  my  eyes  hurt  me  a 
little,  as  though  I  felt  more  of  the  light.  Subjective, 
I  suppose." 

She  could  not  feel  him  look  at  her.  At  length, 
he  spoke,  quietly.  "I've  some  news  for  you,  or  pos 
sible  news.  It  has  very  much  to  do  with  your  happi 
ness.  Tell  me,  if  it  were  in  my  power  to  give  you 
back  your  eyes,  would  you  tell  me  to  do  that  ?" 

"My  eyes?    What  do  you  mean?    To  see  again?" 

"If  I  gave  you  back  your  sight,  I  would  be  giving 
you  back  the  truth;  and  that  would  be  very,  very 
cruel." 

224 


-UT    SAY    I    SHALL    UK    AHLE    TO    SEE    HIM     -MY    H1SHANU?" 


ANOTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

He  saw  the  fluttering  of  her  throat,  the  twitching 
of  the  hands  in  her  lap,  and  so  hurried  on. 

"Listen !  There's  a  chance  in  a  hundred  that  your 
sight  can  be  restored.  My  old  preceptor  writes  me, 
from  what  I've  told  him,  that  there  is  about  that 
chance.  If  it  did  succeed " 

"Then  I'd  see  again!" 

"Yes.     So  you  would  be  very  unhappy." 

"You  say  a  thing  like  that !" 

He  winced,  flushed. 

"You  come  here  now  with  hopes  that  you  ought 
not  to  offer,  and  you  qualify  even  that!  Fine — fine! 
You  think  I  can  stand  much  more  than  I  have?" 

Still  the  trembling  of  her  hands,  the  fluttering  at 
her  throat.  He  endured  it  for  a  time,  but  broke 
out  savagely  at  last.  "You'd  be  perfect  then — as 
lovely  as  ever  any  woman — why,  you're  perfect  now ! 
And  yet  without  that  one  flaw  where  would  you  be? 
You'd  not  be  married  then,  though  you  are  now." 

"Go  on !"  she  said  at  length,  coldly. 

"You  don't  know  one  of  us  here  except  that  girl, 
Annie,  as  different  from  you  as  night  is  from  day. 
You  don't  know  about  the  rest  of  us.  You  only  think 
about  us,  imagine  us — you  don't  see  us,  don't  know  us. 
Ah,  God!  If  you  only  could!  But — if  you  did!" 

The  last  words  broke  from  him  unconsciously.  He 
sat  chilled  with  horror  at  his  own  speech,  but  knew 
he  had  to  go  on. 

"I  am  going  to  do  what  shall  leave  us  both  unhappy 
225 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

as  long  as  we  live.  I'll  give  you  back  your  eyes  if  I 
can." 

"I  am  helpless."     She  spoke  simply. 

"Yes!  Why,  if  I  even  look  at  you,  I  feel  I'm  an 
eavesdropper,  I'm  stealing.  You  can't  see  in  my  face 
what  your  face  puts  there — you  can't  see  my  eyes  with 
yours.  You  can't  understand  how  you've  made  me 
know  things  I  never  did  know  until  I  saw  you.  Why, 
cruel?  yes!  And  now  you're  asking  me  to  be  still 
more  cruel.  And  I'm  going  to  be." 

"Don't !"  she  broke  out  "Oh,  God!  Don't!  Please 
— you  must  not  talk.  I  thought  you  were  different 
from  this." 

"And  yet  you  have  asked  me  a  dozen  times  what's 
wrong  here.  Why,  everything's  wrong!  That  man 
loves  you  because  he  can  see  you — any  man  would — 
but  you  don't  love  him,  because  you  haven't  seen  him. 
You're  not  a  woman  to  him  at  all,  but  an  abstraction. 
He's  not  a  man  to  you  at  all,  but  an  imagination. 
That's  not  love  of  man  and  woman.  But  when  you 
have  back  your  eyes, — then  you're  in  shape  to  compete 
with  the  best  women  in  the  world  for  the  best  man  in 
the  world.  That's  love!  That's  marriage!  That's 
right !  Nothing  else  is." 

He  paused  horrified.  Her  voice  was  icy.  "I  asked 
you  what  was  wrong  here.  I  begin  to  see  now.  You 
spoke  the  truth — everything  is  wrong." 

"You'll  hate  me  all  your  life  and  I  hate  myself 
now  as  I  never  have  before  in  my  life — despise  my- 

226 


ANOTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

self.  What  a  mockery  we've  made  of  it  all.  God  help 
those  who  see!" 

She  sat  silent  for  a  very  long  time.  "You  say  I 
shall  be  able  to  see  him — my  husband?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so,"  he  said. 

"And  you  also?" 

"No!  Him,  but  not  me.  You  never  will.  I'll 
be  an  imagination  forever.  You'll  never  see  me  at 
all." 

"Under  what  star  of  sadness  was  I  born?"  said 
Mary  Gage,  simply.  "What  a  problem !" 

"Good-by,"  he  replied.    "I  don't  need  to  wait." 

She  held  out  her  hands  to  him,  gropingly.     "Go 


ing?' 


"Yes.  I'm  coming  back,  week  after  next,  to  get 
you.  I'll  not  talk  this  way  ever  again.  Don't  forgive 
me — you  can't 

"You'll  have  to  go  down  to  our  hospital,  perhaps 
for  a  couple  of  weeks,"  he  concluded. 

He  stepped  from  the  room  so  silently,  passed  so 
quickly  on  the  turf,  that  she  was  not  sure  he  had 
gone.  He  never  saw  her  hands  reach  out,  did  not 
hear  her  voice :  "No,  no !  I'll  not  go !  Let  me  be  as 
I  ami" 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  WAYS  OF  MR.    GARDNER 

TWO  figures  stood  regarding  Doctor  Barnes  a» 
his  car  turned  into  the  willow  lane  out-bound 
for  the  highway. 

"Why  didn't  he  say  good-by,  anyways,  when  he 
left?"  commented  Wid,  turning  to  Annie  Squires. 
"Went  off  like  he'd  forgot  something." 

"That's  his  way,"  replied  Annie,  rolling  down  her 
sleeves.  They  had  met  as  she  was  passing  from  the 
barracks  cabin.  "He's  a  live  wire,  anyways.  God 
knows  this  country  needs  them." 

"Wliy,  what's  the  matter  with  this  country?"  de 
manded  Wid  mildly.  "Ain't  it  all  right?" 

"No,  it  ain't.  Till  I  come  here  it  was  inhabited 
exclusively  with  corpses." 

"Well,  then?" 

"And  since  then,  if  it  wouldn't  of  been  for  the 
Doctor  yonder,  you  and  Sim  Gage  would  be  setting 
down  here  yet  and  looking  at  the  burned  places  and 
saying,  'Well,  I  wonder  how  that  happened  ?' ' 

"Well,  if  you  didn't  like  this  here  country,  now  what 
made  you  come  here?"  demanded  Wid  calmly  and 
without  resentment. 

228 


THE  WAYS  OF  MR.  GARDNER 

"You  know  why  I  come.  That  lamb  in  there  was 
needing  me.  A  fine  sight  you'd  be,  to  come  a  thou 
sand  miles  to  look  at !  You  and  him !  Say,  hanging 
would  be  too  good  for  him,  and  drowning  too  ex 
pensive  for  you." 

"Oh,  come  now — that's  making  it  a  little  strong, 
now,  Miss  Annie,  ain't  it?  What  have  I  done  to 
you  to  make  you  feel  that  way?  /  ain't  ever  adver 
tised  for  no  wife,  have  I  ?  Comes  to  that,  I  can  make 
just  as  good  bread  as  you  kin." 

"Huh!     Is  that   so!" 

"Yes,  and  cook  apricots  and  bacon,  and  fry  ham 
as  good  as  you  can  if  there  was  any  to  fry.  Me,  I'd 
be  happy  if  they  wasn't  no  women  in  the  whole  wide 
world.  They're  a  damn  nuisance,  anyways,  ask  me 
about  it." 

He  was  looking  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  at 
Annie,  witnessing  her  wrath. 

"The  gall  of  you!"  exclaimed  Annie,  red  of  face 
and  with  snapping  eye.  "Oh,  they're  damn  nuisances, 
are  they  ?  Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you.  I  fixed  your  socks 
up  last  night  for  you.  Holes?  Gee!  Me  setting  in 
there  by  a  bum  lamp  that  you  had  to  strike  a  match 
to  see  where  it  was.  Never  again !  You  can  go  plumb 
to,  for  all  of  me,  henceforth  and  forever." 

"I  ain't  never  going  to  wear  them  socks  again," 
said  Wid  calmly.  "I'm  a-going  to  keep  them  socks 
for  soovenirs.  Such  darning  I  never  have  saw  in  my 
born  days.  If  I  couldn't  darn  better'n  that  I'd  go  jump 
in  the  creek.  I  didn't  ask  you  to  darn  them  socks 

229 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

noways.  Spoiled  a  perfectly  good  pair  of  socks  for 
me,  that's  what  you  done." 

The  war  light  grew  strong  in  Annie's  eyes.  "You 
never  did  need  but  one  pair  anyways,  all  summer. 
Souvenirs !  Why,  one  pair'd  last  you  your  whole  life. 
I  suppose  you  wrop  things  around  your  feet  in  the 
winter  time,  like  the  Rooshians  in  the  factory.  Say, 
you're  every  way  the  grandest  little  man  that  ever 
lived  alone  by  hisself !  Well,  here's  where  you'll  get 
your  chance  to  be  left  alone  again." 

"You  ain't  gone  yet,"  said  Wid  calmly. 

"What's  the  reason  I  ain't,  or  won't  be?" 

"Well,"  said  Wid  Gardner,  reaching  down  for  a 
straw  and  moving  slowly  over  toward  a  saw  horse 
that  stood  in  the  yard,  "like  enough  I  won't  let  you 

go." 

"What's  that  you  say  ?"  demanded  Annie  scoffingly. 
None  the  less  she  slowly  drew  over  to  the  end  of 
another  saw  horse  and  seated  herself.  "I'll  go  when 
I  get  good  and  ready." 

"Of  course,  you  can't  tell  much  about  a  woman 
first  few  weeks.  They  put  on  their  best  airs  then. 
But  anyways,  I've  sort  of  got  reconciled  to  seeing  you 
around  here.  I  had  a  po'try  book  in  my  house.  Like 
it  says,  I  first  endured  seeing  you,  and  then  felt  sorry 
for  you,  and  then " 

"Cut  out  the  poetry  stuff,"  said  Annie.  "It  ain't 
past  noon  yet." 

"1  ain't  had  time  to  build  my  own  house  over  yet. 
Pianny  and  all  gone  now,  though." 

230 


THE  WAYS  OF  MR.  GARDNER 

"Gee,  but  you  do  lie  easy,"  said  Annie.  "You're 
the  smoothest  running  liar  I  ever  did  see." 

"And  all  my  books  and  things,  and  pictures  and 
dishes." 

"All  of  your  both  two  tin  plates,  huh?" 

"And  my  other  suits  of  clothes,  and  my  bedstead, 
and  my  devvingport,  and  everything — all,  all  gone, 
Miss  Squires!" 

"Is  that  so!  Oh,  sad!  sad!  You  must  of  been 
reading  some  of  them  mail  order  catalogues  in  your 
dreams." 

"And  my  cook  stove  too.  I've  just  been  cooking 
out  in  the  open  air  when  I  couldn't  stand  your  cooking 
here  no  more — out  of  doors,  like  I  was  camping  out." 

"If  any  sheep  herder  was  ever  worse  than  you  two, 
God  help  him!  You  wasn't  one  of  you  fit  for  her  to 
wipe  a  foot  on, — that  doctor  least  of  all,  that  got  me 
out  here  under  pretences  that  she  was  married  happy. 
And  I  find  her  married  to  that!  I  wish  to  God  she 
could  see  all  this,  and  see  you  all,  for  just  one  minute. 
Just  once,  that's  all !" 

"Yes,"  said  Wid  Gardner,  suddenly  serious.  "I 
know.  There  ain't  nothing  I  can  do  to  square  it.  But 
all  I've  got  or  expect  to  have — why,  it's  free  for  you 
to  take  along  and  do  anything  you  can  for  her  and 
your  own  self,  Miss  Annie,  if  you  want  to,  even  if 
you  do  go  away  and  leave  us. 

"But  look  at  my  land  over  there."  He  swept  a 
long  arm  toward  the  waving  grasses  of  the  valley. 
"I've  got  my  land  all  clear.  She's  worth  fifty  a  acre 

231 


THE  SAGEBRUSHES 

as  she  lays,  and'll  be  worth  a  hundred  and  fifty  when 
I  get  water  out  of  the  creek  on  to  her.  I  got  three 
hundred  and  twenty  acres  under  fence.  I  been  saving 
the  money  the  Doc's  paying  me  here. 

"Say,"  he  added,  presently,  "what  kind  of  a  place 
is  that  Niagry  place  I  been  reading  about?  Is  it  far 
from  Cleveland?" 

"'Not  so  very,"  replied  Annie  to  his  sudden  and 
irrelevant  query. 

'It's  a  great  place  for  young  married  folks  to 
go  and  visit,  I  reckon?  I  was  reading  about  in  a 
book  onct,  before  my  books  was  burned  up.  Seems 
like  it  was  called  'A  Chanct  Acquaintance.'  Ever 
since,  I  allowed  I'd  go  to  Niagry  on  my  wedding 
journey." 

"Well,"  said  Annie,  judicially,  "I  been  around  some, 
what  with  floor-walkers  and  foremen  and  men  in  the 
factory,  but  I'm  going  to  say  that  when  it  comes  to 
chanct  acquaintances,  this  here  place  has  got  'em  faded 
for  suddenness !  Go  on  over  home  and  rub  your  eyes 
and  wake  up,  man!  You're  dopy." 

"No,  I  ain't,"  said  Wid.  "I'm  in  a  perfectly  sane, 
sound  and  disposin'  mind.  You're  getting  awful  sun 
burned,  but  it  only  makes  you  good-lookinger,  Miss 
Annie. 

"But  now  lemme  tell  you  one  thing,"  he  went  on, 
"I  don't  want  to  see  you  making  no  more  eyes  at 
that  corporal  in  there.  Plenty  of  men  in  the  Army 
has  run  away  and  left  three,  four  wives  at  home." 

232 


THE  WAYS  OF  MR.  GARDNER 

"I  don't  care  nothing  about  no  man's  past,"  said 
Annie.  "They  all  look  alike  to  me." 

"Well,  I  can't  say  that  about  you.  Some  ways 
you're  a  powerful  homely  girl.  Your  hair's  gettin' 
sunburned  around  the  ends  like  Karen  Jensen's.  And 
your  eyes — turn  around,  won't  you,  so  I  kin  remem 
ber  what  color  your  eyes  is.  I  sort  of  forgot,  but  they 
ain't  much.  Not  that  I  care  about  it.  Women  is 
nothing  in  my  young  life." 

"Huh !  you're  eighty  if  you're  a  day." 

"It's  the  way  I  got  my  hair  combed." 

Extending  a  strong  right  arm  she  pushed  him  off 
the  end  of  the  saw  horse.  He  rose,  dusting  his 
trousers  calmly.  "Oh,  dear,  I  didn't  think  so  much 
sinfulness  could  be  packed  in  so  young  a  life!  But 
say,  Annie,  what's  the  use  of  fooling?  I  got  to  tell 
you  the  truth  about  it  sometime.  Like  on  my  flour 
sack:  'Eventual,  why  not  now?'  And  the  plain, 
plumb  truth  is,  you're  the  best  as  well  as  the  pertiest 
girl  that  ever  set  a  foot  on  Montana  dirt." 

Annie's  face  was  turned  away  now. 

"Your  hair  and  eyes  and  teeth,  and  your  way  of 
talking,  and  your  way  of  taking  hold  of  things  and 
making  a  home — haven't  you  been  making  a  home  fer 
all  of  us  people  here?  I  told  you  I'd  have  to  tell  the 
truth  at  last.  Besides,  I  said  I  was  to  blame  for 
everything  that's  gone  wrong  here.  I  was.  But  I'll 
give  you  all  I  am  and  all  I  got  to  square  it,  anyways 
you  like." 

233 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Well,  anyways,"  said  Annie  Squires,  drawing  a 
long  breath,  "I  think  if  you  took  on  something,  you'd 
see  it  through ;  and  you  wouldn't  pass  the  buck  if  you 
fell  down." 

"That's  me,"  said  Wid. 

"I  get  you,"  said  Annie. 

"You  said  that  to  me  right  out  here  in  broad  day 
light,  in  presence  of  witnesses,  four  hens  and  a  dog." 

"I  said  I  understood  you.    That  was  all." 

Wid  Gardner  turned  to  her  and  looked  her  squarely, 
m  the  eyes.  "Not  appropry  to  nothing,  neither  here 
nor  there,  ner  bragging  none,  I'm  able  to  put  up  as 
much  hay  in  a  day  as  any  two  Mormons  in  the  Two 
Forks  Valley.  In  the  hay  fields  of  life,  it's  deeds  and 
not  words  that  counts.  I  read  that  in  a  book  some- 
wheres." 

"Say,"  he  went  on,  suddenly,  "have  you  noticed  how 
perty  the  moonlight  is  on  the  medders  these  nights? 
You  reckon  it  shines  that  same  way  over  at  Niagry?" 

Annie  did  not  answer  at  the  instant.  "Well,"  said 
she  at  last,  "in  some  ways  this  country  is  a  lot  like 
Cleveland.  Go  on  over  to  your  own  house,  if  you've 
got  one,  and  don't  you  never  speak  to  me  again,  so 
long  as  you  live." 

"Well,  anyways,"  said  Wid,  chuckling,  "you  didn't 
really  call  me  a  sheep  man.  But  listen — I've  told  you 
almost  the  truth  about  everything.  Now  I  got  to  be 
going." 

'I  was  afraid  you'd  be  making  some  break,"  said 
Annie  Squires.  T  was  expecting  you'd  do  some  fool 

234 


THE  WAYS  OF  MR.  GARDNER 

thing   or   other.     I   almost   knew  you'd   do  it    But 
then " 

"Yes;  and  but  then?" 

"But  then "  concluded  Annie, 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

DORENWALD,    CHIEF 

MARY  GAGE,  sitting  alotte  in  her  cabin,  could 
hear  the  hum  of  voices  as  Wid  Gardner  and 
Annie  Squires  talked  together  in  the  open 
sunlight.    Presently  she  heard  the  footfall  of  Annie  as 
she  came  to  the  door. 

"Well,  Sis,"  said  that  cheerful  individual,  "how  are 
you  getting  on?" 

'Couldn't  you  come  in  for  a  while,  Annie?  I'm 
very  lonesome.  What  were  you  talking  about?" 

"I  just  told  that  man  out  there  I'm  going  to  take 
you  back  home." 

Mary  Gage  sat  silent  for  a  time.  "We'll  have  to 
get  a  better  solution  than  that." 

"It's  a  fine  little  solution  you've  got  so  far,  ain't  it 
now?"  commented  Annie.  "Highbrows  always  have 
to  lean  on  the  lowbrows,  more  or  less.  You  listen  to 
me." 

"Sometime,  I  suppose,"  she  went  on  after  a  mo 
ment's  pause,  "I'll  have  to  talk  right  out  with  you. 
For  instance,  you  being  a  farmer's  wife!  Now,  as 
for  me,  I  was  raised  on  a  farm.  When  I  was  ten 
years  old  I  was  milking  five  cows  every  day.  When 

236 


I  was  twelve  I  was  sitting  up  at  night  knitting  socks 
for  the  other  kids.  That  was  before  I  got  the  idea 
of  going  to  the  white  lights  after  my  career.  Well, 
it's  lucky  I  met  you,  like  enough.  But  me  once  talking 
of  getting  married  to  Charlie  Dorenwald!  I  should 
admire  to  see  him,  me  handy  to  a  flat  iron." 

"But,  Annie,  I'd  die  if  it  wasn't  for  some  one  to  help 
me  all  the  time.  Some  pay  for  that  with  money.  How 
can  I  pay  for  it  at  all?  Tell  me,  Annie."  She  turned 
suddenly.  "If  I — if  I  could  get  my  eyesight  back 
again,  what  ought  I  to  do  ?" 

"I  wouldn't  talk  about  that,  Sis,  if  I  was  you.  But 
just  wait,  there's  some  one  coming — it's  him." 

Mary  could  hear  Sim  Gage's  rapid  step  as  he  came 
around  to  the  door,  pausing  no  more  than  to  throw 
down  his  horse's  bridle  over  its  head. 

Sim  Gage  was  excited.  "Where's  the  Doc? — he 
been  here  this  morning?" 

"He  went  away  less  than  an  hour  ago,"  replied  Mary 
Gage.  "How  long  was  it,  Annie?  Why?" 

"Well,  I  got  to  go  down  to  the  dam.  Something  up 
in  the  hills  I  don't  like." 

"Not  those  same  men?"  Mary  Gage's  face  showed 
terror. 

"I  don't  know  yet.  Two  cars  was  in  camp  on  the 
creek,  half  way  up  towards  the  Reserve.  I  seen  'em 
and  sneaked  back." 

"Telephone  down,  why  don't  you?" 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  said  Sim.    "I  ain't  used 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

to  them  things.  Say,  Miss  Squires,  supposin'  you  see 
if  you  can  get  the  doctor  down  at  the  dam?" 

But  when  Annie  tried  to  use  the  telephone  her  ring 
sounded  idle  and  vacant  in  the  box.  The  instrument 
was  dead. 

"Out  of  order!"  said  Annie,  "right  when  you  want 
it.  When  you  want  to  make  a  date  the  girls  says, 
'Party's  line's  out  of  order.'  Of  course  it  is!" 

"Well,  then  I'll  have  to  start  down  right  away.  I 
got  to  see  the  Doc  about  this.  I  hate  to  leave  you 
alone." 

"Let  him  go,"  said  Annie  to  Mary  Gage.  "The 
soldiers  '11  be  back  for  supper  pretty  soon." 

"I've  got  to  go  over  to  Wid's,"  said  Sim;  "got  to 
get  another  horse." 

He  turned  and  left  the  room  without  more  word  of 
parting  than  he  had  shown  of  greeting.  He  walked 
more  alertly  than  ever  he  had  in  his  life. 

He  found  \Vid  Gardner  and  told  his  news.  His 
neighbor  listened  to  him  gravely. 

"It  may  be  only  some  people  in  there  fishing,"  said 
Wid,  "but  it's  no  time  to  take  chances.  You  say  the 
wire's  down?  That  looks  so  bad,  I  reckon  you'd 
better  ride  on  down.  How  far  have  you  rode  to 
day?" 

"Round  thirty,  forty  miles." 

"Forty  more  won't  hurt  you  none,"  said  Wid. 
"The  roan  bronc  can  stand  it.  I'll  go  on  over  and 
tell  the  women  folks  not  to  be  afraid." 

"Gee,  but  this  is  some  quiet  place!"  said  Annie 
238 


Squires,  as  the  two  women  sat  alone  in  nervous  si 
lence.     "You  can  cut  it  with  a  knife,  can't  you?" 

"Did  you  say  Mr.  Gardner  was  coming  over  here 
before  long?"  asked  Mary.  "Annie,  I'm  so  afraid!" 

"Hush,  Sis !  It's  like  enough  only  a  scare.  I  wish't 
that  doctor  man  had  stayed.  But  tell  me,  was  he 
saying  anything  to  you  about  your  eyes  ?" 

"Yes." 

"What?" 

"He  said  he  was  coming  up  here  in  a  week  or  twc 
to  take  me  down  to  the  hospital.  He  said  he  thought 
perhaps  he  could  save  my  eyes!  Oh,  Annie,  Annie!'' 

"Hush,  Sis !  I  told  you  to  forget  it.  You  mustn't 
hope — remember,  you  mustn't  hope,  Miry,  whatever 
you  do." 

"No,  I  mustn't  hope.     I  told  him  I  wouldn't  go." 

"Some  folks  is  grand  little  jokers.  Women  can't 
help  stringing  a  man  along,  can  they?  Of  course 
you'll  go." 

She  cast  her  arms  about  Mary  Gage,  and  held  her 
tight.  "You  poor  kid !"  said  she.  "You  get  your 
eyes  first,  and  let's  figure  out  the  rest  after  that.  You 
make  me  tired.  Cut  out  all  that  duty  and  sacrifice 
stuff.  Live  and  get  yours.  That's  the  idea! 

"Now,  you  sit  here."  She  rose  and  placed  a  com 
forting  hand  on  Mary's  shoulder.  "Just  keep  quiet 
here,  and  I'll  go  out  and  see  if  I  can  call  Henry 
Gardner.  He  seems  to  me  like  a  man  that  wouldn't 
scare  easy.  I'll  go  as  far  as  the  fence  and  yoo-hoo 
at  him.  I'll  be  right  back." 

239 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

But  Annie  Squires  did  not  come  back  for  almost 
an  hour.  Wid  Gardner,  coming  across  lots  by  the 
creek  path,  found  Mary  Gage  alone,  and  sat  with  her 
there  in  an  uneasiness  he  could  not  himself  conceal, 
wondering  over  the  girl's  absence.  Mary  was  well- 
nigh  beside  herself  when  at  length  they  heard  Annie 
coming  rapidly,  saw  her  at  the  door. 

"Get  back  in!"  she  said.  "Sit  down,  both  of  you! 
Wait,  now — Listen!  Who  do  you  think  I  found 
right  out  here,  almost  in  our  very  yard,  Mary?" 

Panting,  she  seated  herself,  and  after  a  time  began 
more  coherently.  "I'll  tell  you.  I  just  walked  out 
to  the  gate,  and  says  I  to  myself,  I'll  yoo-hoo  so  that 
Mr.  Gardner  can  hear  over  there  and  come  on  down. 
So  I  yoo-hooed.  Did  you  hear  me?" 

Wid  shook  his  head.     "I  didn't  hear  nothing." 

"Well,  I  heard  some  one  holler  back,  soft-like,  'Yoo- 
hoo!'  It  didn't  sound  just  right,  so  I  walked  on  a  lit 
tle  more.  'Yoo-hoo !'  says  I.  Then  I  seen  a  man  come 
out  of  the  bushes.  I  seen  it  wasn't  you,  all  right.  He 
come  on  right  fast,  and  Mary — I  couldn't  of  believed 
it,  but  it's  the  truth.  It  was  Charlie — Charlie  Doren- 
wald !  I  couldn't  make  no  mistake  about  them  legs. 

"When  I  seen  who  it  was  I  turned  around  to  run. 
I  was  scared  he'd  shoot  me.  He  hollered  at  me  to 
stop,  and  I  stopped.  He  come  after  me  and  caught 
me  by  the  arm,  and  he  laughs.  I  was  scared  silly — 
silly,  I  tell  you.  He  laughs  some  more,  and  then  he 
sobers  down  to  solid  talk. 

"  'Why,  Charlie,'  says  I,  'it  can't  be  you.  I'm  so 
240 


DORENWALD,  CHIEF 

glad.'  I  allowed  the  best  thing  was  to  jolly  him  along. 
I  knew  he'd  make  trouble.  I  wanted  a  chance  to 
think. 

"We  stood  out  there  so  close  I  could  see  the  cabin 
all  the  time — and  we  talked.  That  fellow  couldn't 
help  bragging  about  himself.  He  was  half  loaded. 
Says  I  to  him,  'What  made  you  come  out  here,  Charlie? 
To  find  me?' 

'Yes,'  says  he.    'I  knew  you  was  here.' 

1  'How  did  you  know  it  ?'  I  asked  him. 

"  'That's  a  good  question,'  says  he.  'Haven't  I  got 
plenty  people  working  for  me  that  could  tell  me  where 
you  was,  or  anything  else  I  wanted  to  know?  The 
free  brothers  work  together.'  ' 

Wid  Gardner's  eyes  were  full  on  her.  He  did  not 
speak. 

"So  we  turned  and  moved  further  up  the  lane  then," 
went  on  Annie.  "I  kept  on  asking  him  how  he  come 
here.  I  told  him  I'd  been  too  proud  to  send  for  him. 
But  now  he'd  come,  how  could  I  help  loving  him  all 
over  again!" 

"You  didn't  mean  that,"  said  Wid  quietly. 

"How  much  do  you  think  I'd  mean  it?  That  Dutch 
snake!  Listen —  He  told  me  more  than  the  papers 
ever  told.  He  told  me  he'd  been  a  sort  of  chief  there 
in  Cleveland  right  along,  along  in  the  war,  and  after 
peace  was  signed.  He  pulled  off  some  good  things,  so 
he  said,  so  they  sent  him  out  here.  He  was  after  me. 
Folks,  that  man  took  himself  apart  for  me.  He  made 

241 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

me  promise  to  go  along  with  him,  all  dolled  up,  and 
in  our  own  car !" 

"You  ain't  going,"  said  Wid,  quietly. 

"One  guess !  But  there'll  be  trouble.  I've  only  told 
you  a  little  part  of  it  that  that  fellow  spilled  to  me. 
Dorenwald's  nutty  over  these  things.  He  tells  what 
the  German  Socialists  will  do  when  they  get  to  Amer 
ica.  He  says  this  is  the  world  revolution, — whatever 
he  means.  Oh,  my  God !" 

Annie  began  to  weep  in  a  sudden  hysteria. 

"Which  way  did  that  man  go  from  here  ?"  she  heard 
Wid  Gardner's  voice  at  length. 

"I  don't  know.  He  said  he  had  a  man  with  him,  a 
'brainy-cat/  he  called  him,  to  lecture  in  halls.  He 
made  me  promise  to  be  out  there  at  the  gate  at  sun-up 
to-morrow  morning  to  go  away  with  him.  I'd  have 
promised  him  anything.  I'm  awful  scared.  Why 
don't  the  men  come  back?" 

Annie  Squires  was  sobbing  now.  "And  this  was 
our  country.  We  let  them  people  in.  I  know  it's  true, 
what  he  said.  And  I  told  him  that  at  sun-up " 

"Don't  bother  about  that,"  said  Wid  Gardner  quietly. 
"Now  you  two  set  right  here  in  the  house,"  he  added, 
as  he  rose  and  picked  up  the  rifle  he  saw  hanging  on 
its  nails.  "I'm  going  out  and  lay  in  the  willers  along 
the  lane  a  little  while,  near  the  gate.  I  can  hear  you 
if  you  holler.  I  think  it's  best  for  me  to  go  out  there 
and  keep  a  watch  till  the  fellers  come  back.  Don't 
be  a-scared,  because  I'll  be  right  there,  not  far  from 
the  gate." 

242 


DORENWALD,  CHIEF 

He  stepped  out,  rifle  in  hand.  The  two  women  sat 
alone,  shivering  in  nervous  terror,  starting  at  every 
little  sound. 

They  sat  they  knew  not  how  long,  before  the  clear 
air  of  the  moonlight  night  was  rent  by  sharp  sounds. 
A  single  piercing  shot  echoed  close  at  hand ;  scattering 
shots  sounded  farther  up  the  lane;  then  many  shots; 
and  then  came  the  sound  of  a  car  passing  rapidly  on 
the  distant  highway. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

A  CHANGE  OF  BASE 

THE  roan  horse  which  Sim  Gage  rode  was  in  no 
downcast  frame  of  mind,  but  he  himself,  en 
grossed  with  his  errand,  did  not  at  first  notice 
that  it  was  the  same  half  wild  animal  with  which  he 
had  had  combat  at  an  earlier  time.  He  fought  it  for 
half  an  hour  or  more  down  a  half  dozen  miles  of  the 
road,  but  at  length  the  brute  made  matters  worse 
by  picking  up  a  stone,  and  going  dead  lame,  so  that 
any  great  speed  was  out  of  the  question. 

Night  was  falling  now  across  the  winding  trail 
which  passed  along  the  valley  lands  and  over  the  shoul 
ders  of  the  mountains.  It  was  wild  country  even 
yet,  but  beautiful  as  it  lay  in  the  light  of  the  fading 
day.  Sim  Gage  had  no  time  to  note  the  play  of  light 
or  shadow  on  the  hills.  He  rode.  It  was  past  mid 
night  when  he  swung  off  his  now  meek  and  wet-sided 
horse,  cast  down  the  bridle  rein,  and  went  in  search 
of  Doctor  Barnes. 

The  latter  met  his  caller  with  the  point  of  an  elec 
tric  torch  at  the  door. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Gage?"  said  he.     "Come  in." 

Sim  Gage  entered  and  seated  himself,  his  hurt  leg 
244 


A  CHANGE  OF  BASE 

stiffly  before  him  on  the  floor.  Briefly  as  he  could,  he 
told  the  reason  of  his  errand  and  the  reason  for  his 
delay. 

"Leave  your  horse  here,"  said  Doctor  Barnes,  al 
ready  preparing  for  his  journey.  "We'll  take  my 
car." 

A  half  hour  later  the  two  were  again  en  route. 
The  head  light  of  the  car,  swinging  from  side  to  side 
around  the  steep  and  unprotected  curves  of  the  moun 
tain  slopes,  showed  the  rude  passageway,  in  places 
risky  enough  at  that  hour  and  that  speed.  At  that 
latitude  the  summer  nights  are  short,  and  their  journey 
was  unfinished  when  the  gray  dawn  began  to  turn  to 
pink  upon  the  mountain  tops.  In  the  clearer  light 
Doctor  Barnes  saw  something  which  caused  him  to 
pull  up. 

"There's  the  wire  break,"  he  exclaimed.  "Look 
here." 

They  both  left  the  car  and  approached  the  nearest 
pole.  It  bore  the  fresh  marks  of  a  linesman's  climbing 
irons.  "Professional  work.  And  that's  a  cut  with 
nippers — not  a  break.  Keep  away  from  the  free  end, 
Gage's,  it's  probably  a  live  wire.  You're  right.  That 
gang  is  back  in  here  again.  But  tell  me,  what's  that? 
—Do  you  smell  anything  ?" 

Sim  Gage  nodded.     "Smoke,"  said  he. 

As  the  light  grew  stronger  so  that  the  far  slopes 
of  the  mountain  were  visible  they  saw  the  proof. 
Smoke,  a  heavy,  rolling  blanket  of  smoke,  lay  high 
over  the  farther  summits. 

245 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Damn  their  souls!"  said  Doctor  Barnes  fervently 
and  tersely.  "They've  set  the  forest  afire  again." 

A  half  hour  later  they  swung  into  the  ranch  yard. 
The  call  of  "Halt!"  came,  backed  by  a  tousled  head 
nestled  against  the  stock  of  a  Springfield  which  pro 
truded  from  a  window. 

"Advance,  friend!"  exclaimed  the  corporal  when 
he  got  his  countersign,  and  a  moment  later  met  his 
Major  in  the  dooryard.  They  were  joined  by  Wid 
Gardner,  who  rose  from  the  place  where  he  had  sat, 
rifle  across  his  knees,  most  of  the  night  crouched 
against  the  end  of  the  cabin. 

"We've  got  him  in  here,"  said  the  Sergeant,  leading 
the  way  to  the  barracks  door. 

"Got  what?" 

"The  one  we  shot.  He's  deader'n  hell,  but  I  thought 
you  might  like  to  look  through  his  pockets." 

Wid  Gardner  unemotionally  accompanied  them  into 
the  room  of  the  barracks  where,  on  a  couple  of  boards, 
between  two  carpenter's  trestles,  lay  a  long  figure  cov 
ered  with  a  blanket. 

"Scout  Gardner  got  him  last  night  about  nine 
o'clock,  sir,"  said  the  Sergeant;  "out  in  the  lane  be 
hind  the  gate.  Called  to  him  to  halt,  and  he  didn't 
stop." 

"He  didn't  have  no  chanct  to  halt,"  said  Wid  Gard 
ner  calmly.  "I  hollered  that  to  him  after  I  had 
dropped  him.  He  wasn't  the  one  I  was  after,  neither." 

"The  rest  of  them  got  away,"  went  on  the  Ser 
geant.  "We  heard  the  shot  when  we  was  just  com- 

246 


A  CHANGE  OF  BASE 

ing  down  the  road.  We  come  on  to  the  head  of  the 
lane  and  heard  brush  breaking.  They  was  trying  to 
get  to  their  car,  down  a  little  further.  They  whirled 
and  came  back  through  us  in  the  car,  and  we  shot  into 
them,  but  I  don't  know  if  we  got  any  of  'em,  the 
horses  was  pitching  so.  They  went  back  up  the  trail, 
or  maybe  up  on  the  Reserve  road — I  dunno.  We  come 
on  down  here  to  get  orders." 

Doctor  Barnes  slipped  back  the  blanket.  There  was 
revealed  the  thin,  aquiline  face  of  a  man  dressed  in 
rather  dandified  clothing.  There  were  rings  on  both 
hands,  a  rather  showy  but  valuable  stickpin  in  the 
scarf.  The  hands  were  not  those  of  a  laboring  man. 
At  the  bridge  of  the  nose  a  faint  depression  showed 
that  he  wore  eyeglasses.  His  complexion  was  blond, 
and  his  eyes,  open  now  only  to  a  slit,  might  also  have 
been  light  in  color.  There  was  on  his  features,  in 
definably  foreign,  the  stamp  not  to  say  of  birth  so 
much  as  of  education.  The  man  apparently  once 
was  used  to  easy  if  not  gentle  ways  of  life. 

"Tell  me  how  it  happened,"  said  Doctor  Barnes  to 
Gardner,  who  stood  by. 

"She  can  tell  you  more'n  I  can,"  said  Wid — "Miss 
Squires.  This  ain't  the  feller.  The  real  one  that  I 
want  she  used  to  work  with — he  was  foreman  back 
East  in  the  shops  where  she  worked.  His  name  was 
Dorenwald.  She  promised  to  meet  him  out  there  at 
sun-up  this  morning.  I  went  out  last  night  to  see  what 
I  could  see.  I  found  this  feller.  He  was  coming 

247 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

down  the  trail.  I  waited  till  he  got  clost  enough — 
about  forty  yard.  Onct  was  enough." 

"How  many  cars  did  you  see?"  Doctor  Barnes  de 
manded  of  the  sergeant. 

"One." 

"Gage  says  he  saw  two." 

"The  other  may  be  back  in  the  hills  yet." 

"Well,  here's  work!  Tell  me,  Gardner,  is  there 
any  way  those  people  can  get  out  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Reserve,  down  the  West  Fork?  You  know 
the  backwater  above  the  little  dam,  two  miles  below 
the  big  dam?  Most  of  the  timber  we  intended  to 
float  out  that  way,  to  the  mill  at  the  little  dam.  They 
may  have  gone  on  across  in  there. 

"Now,  Corporal,  leave  McQueston  and  two  men 
here.  I  want  the  rest  of  you  with  me — we'll  go  up 
in  the  hills  with  my  car.  McQueston,  take  one  man 
and  go  and  fix  the  break  in  the  line  three  miles  down 
the  road.  We'll  either  come  back  in  my  car  or  send 
it  back  to  you  somehow.  The  fire  may  block  us.  Get 
your  men  ready.  March !" 

It  was  anxious  enough  waiting  at  the  ranch,  but 
the  wait  might  have  been  longer.  It  was  not  yet 
eleven  o'clock  when  the  two  women  heard  the  hum 
of  the  heavily  loaded  car  and  saw  the  men  climb  out 
again.  It  was  Doctor  Barnes  who  came  to  the  cabin. 

"It's  no  use,"  said  he.  "The  fire  has  cut  off  the 
Tepee  Creek  trail.  The  best  fir  is  gone,  and  there's 
no  hope  of  stopping  the  fire  now.  If  they  took  their 
car  up,  they  must  have  left  it  in  there — some  of  them 

248 


A  CHANGE  OF  BASE 

went  back  up  the  trail.  They  may  be  over  on  the 
West  Fork;  and  if  they've  got  there,  they've  got  a 
shorter  route  down  to  the  dams  than  around  by  the 
Valley  road." 

He  turned  now  to  Mary  Gage  more  specifically. 
"We've  got  a  company  of  troops  down  there  to  guard 
the  big  dam.  It's  safer  there  than  it  is  here.  What 
do  you  think  of  going  back  now,  to  stop  until  this 
row  is  over?  We  can  take  better  care  of  you  there 
than  we  can  here." 

She  sat  for  a  moment,  her  face  turned  away. 

"Will  you  come?"  he  repeated. 

"One  guess !"  said  Annie  Squires  for  her.  "In  a 
minute !"  And  by  that  time  she  was  throwing  things 
into  the  valises. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

MARTIAL   LAW 

THE  entire  flow  of  the  greater  of  the  Two  Forks 
streams  lay  harnessed  at  last,  after  years  of 
labor  and  an  expenditure  of  millions.  For 
twenty  miles  there  lay  a  lake  where  once  a  clear, 
gravel-bottomed  stream  had  flowed  above  the  gorge  of 
the  mountain  canyon.  The  gray  face  of  a  man-made 
wall  rose  sheer  a  hundred  feet  above  the  original  bed 
of  the  stream,  leaving  it  in  part  revealed;  and  this 
barrier  checked  and  stayed  the  once  resistless  flood 
against  which  an  entire  mountain  range  had  proved 
inefficient.  Presently  for  hundreds  of  miles  each  way 
the  transmission  lines  would  carry  out  power  to  those 
seeking  light,  to  those  employing  labor;  and  the  used 
water  would  irrigate  lands  far  below. 

Allied  with  this  unit  of  the  great  dam  was  a  lesser 
dam  operating  a  mill  plant  on  the  other  Fork.  Down 
this  stream  ship  timbers  once  had  come.  The  camp  of 
the  reclamation  engineers  and  construction  men  lay 
upon  a  bench  or  plateau  which  once  formed  the  bank 
of  the  stream  upon  that  side,  now  about  half  way 
up  to  the  top  of  the  great  dam.  The  road  running 
up  and  down  the  valley  ascended  from  this  plateau 


MARTIAL  LAW 

to  a  sufficient  elevation  to  surmount  the  permanent 
water  level  above  the  upper  dam.  On  the  opposite 
side  rose  a  sheer  and  bare  rock  running  two-thirds 
up  to  the  top  of  the  mountain  peak  which  here  had 
shouldered  its  way  down  as  though  in  curiosity  to 
look  at  the  bottom  of  the  gorge  itself.  The  great  dam 
was  anchored  to  the  rock  face  on  that  side,  and  it 
was  there  that  the  chutes  and  wells  for  the  turbines 
were  located,  as  well  as  the  spill  gates  which  now 
were  in  temporary  service.  A  wide  roadway  of  ce 
ment,  with  vast  buttresses  on  each  side,  ran  along  the 
top  of  the  dam  and  looked  down  upon  the  abrupt  sur 
face  of  its  lower  face.  Here,  and  there,  at  either  side 
of  the  dam,  and  at  the  original  stream  level,  stood  low 
buildings  of  stone,  to  house  the  vast  dynamos  or  care 
for  other  phases  of  the  tremendous  industrial  in 
stallation  of  the  National  Government. 

Here  and  there  were  stationed  the  armed  guards, 
in  the  uniform  of  the  Army.  They  did  sentry-go 
along  the  dam-top,  and  patrolled  or  watched  the 
lower  levels  of  the  works  below  the  dam.  They 
patrolled  also  the  street  and  the  road  above  and  be 
low  the  camp. 

Well  paid  human  labor  had  erected  this  great  dam, 
mixed  with  the  returned  soldiers  and  a  small  per  cent 
of  labor  sometimes  sullen,  with  no  affection  for  its 
work.  In  time  among  such  as  these  came  agents  of 
a  new  and  vast  discontent,  some  who  spoke  of  a  "rule 
of  reason,"  meaning  thereby  the  crazed  European  rule 
of  ignorant  selfishness,  others  who  spoke  of  "violence" 

251 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

as  the  only  remedy  for  labor  against  capital.  With 
what  promises  they  deluded  labor,  with  what  hopes 
of  any  change,  with  what  possibilities  of  later  benefits, 
with  what  chimeras  of  an  easier,  unearned  day,  it 
matters  not.  They  found  listeners. 

Against  these  covert  forces  working  for  the  destruc 
tion  of  our  civilization,  our  Government  developed  an 
unsuspected  efficiency,  sometimes  through  its  depart 
ment  of  justice,  sometimes  through  a  vast  and  silent 
civilian  body  of  detectives  working  all  over  the  coun 
try  and  again  through  its  franker  agencies  of  the  mili 
tary  arm.  Thus  that  able  engineer  who  had  built  the 
great  power  dam  here  at  the  Two  Forks — a  man 
who  had  built  a  half  score  of  railroads  and  laid  piers 
for  bridges  without  number,  and  planned  city  monu 
ments,  with  the  boldest  and  most  fertile  of  imagina 
tions,  Friedrich  Waldhorn  his  name,  was  a  graduate 
of  our  best  institutions  and  those  of  Germany — long 
since  had  been  watched  as  closely  as  many  another  of 
less  importance  in  charge  of  work  remotely  or  inti 
mately  concerned  with  the  country's  public  resources. 

Waldhorn — before  the  war  an  outspoken  Socialist 
and  free-thinker — may  have  known  that  he  was 
watched — must  have  known  it  when  a  young  medical 
officer  given  military  duties  quite  outside  his  own  pro 
fession,  was  put  over  him  in  authority  at  the  scene 
of  his  engineering  triumph,  and  at  precisely  the  time 
of  its  climax.  But  the  situation  for  Waldhorn  was 
this,  that  if  he  resigned  and  left  the  place  he  would 
only  come  the  more  closely  under  immediate  espion- 

252 


MARTIAL  LAW 

age.     Whatever  his  motives,  he  remained,  sullen  and 
uncommunicative. 

Meanwhile  the  little  camp  sprawled  in  the  sun,  scat 
tered  along  the  plateau  on  the  side  of  the  mountain 
gorge.  Crude,  unpainted,  built  of  logs  or  raw  boards, 
it  lay  in  the  shadow  for  the  greater  part  of  the  day, 
deep  down  in  the  narrow  cleft  of  the  mountains,  far 
out  in  the  wilderness.  The  great  forest  deepened 
and  thickened,  back  of  it,  forty  miles  into  the  high 
country. 

Those  who  lived  here  in  the  canyon  could  not  as  yet 
understand  the  nature  of  the  thin  blue  veil  which  to 
day  obscured  their  scanty  sunlight,  did  not  know  that 
each  minute  of  day  was  destroying  trees  which  had 
cost  a  thousand  years  to  grow,  which  never  in  the 
knowledge  of  man  might  be  replaced.  But  when  the 
party  of  Major  Barnes  came  dowrn  from  Sim  Gage's 
ranch,  questions  were  answered.  The  forest  had  been 
fired  again.  The  soldiers  swore  the  silent  soldier 
oath  of  revenge. 

Doctor  Barnes  did  not  pause  even  to  help  the  women 
out  of  the  car.  He  hurried  to  the  long,  screened 
gallery  in  front  of  the  residence  and  office  of  Wald- 
horn,  chief  engineer. 

Waldhorn  met  him  at  the  door,  well-fed,  suave, 
polite,  a  burly  man,  well-clad  and  bearing  the  marks 
of  alertness  and  success.  Always  of  few  words,  he 
scarcely  more  than  spoke  at  present,  his  mildly  elevated 
eyebrows  making  inquiry  of  the  dusty  man  before 
him. 

253 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Yes,  Doctor,  or — ah,  Major?"  he  said,  smilingly, 
insulting. 

"Call  it  Major!"  snapped  Barnes.  "I've  come  to 
tell  you  that  I  want  your  house." 

"Yes?     When?" 

"In  two  minutes." 

"Why?" 

"I  want  it  for  Government  uses.  A  patient  of 
mine  has  come  down  here  to  stay  a  while — wife  of 
one  of  my  scouts." 

"Well,  now,  my  dear  Major,  I  would  not  like  to 
interfere  with  your  private  graft  in  the  practice  of 
medicine  in  any  way.  But  I'm  engineer  in  charge  of 
this  work,  I  fancy." 

"Fancy  something  else  while  the  fancying's  good. 
Go  on  over  to  that  little  log  house,  Waldhorn.  You'll 
live  there  until  we  send  you  out." 

"Send  me  out!    What  do  you  mean,  sir?" 

"This  camp  is  under  martial  law.  You're  under 
arrest,  if  you  like  to  call  it  that  way." 

'You're  going  to  arrest  me?  Why — what  do  you 
mean?" 

"Call  it  what  you  like.  But  move,  now,  and  don't 
waste  my  time." 

"I  beg  pardon,"  drawled  Waldhorn,  smiling  with 
a  well-concealed  sneer,  "but  isn't  this  a  trifle  sudden  ? 
I'm  willing  to  give  up  my  place  to  the  ladies,  of  course, 
my  dear  Major,  but  I  must  ask  some  sort  of  explana 
tion  as  to  this  other  procedure.  Martial  law?  What 
is  your  authority?" 

254 


"Call  it  Jehovah  and  the  Continental  Congress,  my 
dear  chap,"  said  Doctor  Barnes,  likewise  drawling. 
"I'll  take  that  up  after  a  while.  I'm  in  charge  here. 
If  you  go  over  there  quietly  to  that  other  house  it 
may  look  like  an  act  of  courtesy.  If  you  don't — it 
might  be  called  an  act  of  God.  Come,  hurry — I  can't 
talk  here  any  longer." 

Waldhorn  saw  two  troopers  coming  at  a  fast  walk 
from  across  the  street,  saw  that  the  eyes  of  Doctor 
Barnes  watched  his  hand  carefully.  Therefore,  as 
though  easily  and  naturally,  he  leaned  with  both  his 
own  hands  above  his  head  resting  against  the  jamb  of 
the  door. 

"I  suppose  I'll  have  to  charge  this  up  to  the  fact 
that  I'm  of  German  descent,"  said  he.  "I  can't  help 
that.  I've  lived  here  thirty  years.  I'm  as  good  a  citi 
zen  as  you,  but  I'll  have  to  submit.  Be  sure  I'm  going 
to  take  this  up  in  the  courts." 

"Old  stuff.  Take  it  up  where  you  damn  please," 
said  Barnes  sharply.  "I'm  as  good  an  American  as 
you  are,  too,  even  if  my  parents  were  not  born  in 
Germany.  Step  outside." 

He  motioned  to  his  men.  "McQueston,"  he  said, 
"watch  him  until  I  come  out." 

"You're  not  going  into  my  private  rooms? — I  for 
bid  that.  I'll  never  forget  that,  you  upstart !" 

Doctor  Barnes  smiled.  "I'll  try  to  fix  it  so  you 
won't."  He  stepped  on  in  across  the  gallery. 

Waldhorn  looked  from  the  face  of  one  to  that  of 
the  other  private  soldier  who  stood  before  him,  and 

255 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

saw  the  cold  mask  not  only  of  discipline,  but  of  more. 
Under  their  charge  he  marched  over  to  the  log  build 
ing  indicated,  and  slammed  the  door  behind  him.  The 
men  stood  one  on  each  side,  out  of  range  of  the  win 
dow. 

Doctor  Barnes  was  angry  and  frowning  when  he 
went  back  to  the  car  to  drive  it  down  to  the  door  of 
the  new  quarters  which  had  just  been  vacated. 

"Gee,  Doc,  you  look  sore,"  said  Annie  Squires 
casually.  "Say,  where  do  you  get  the  stuff  you're 
pulling  in  here,  anyway?" 

"Never  mind!  You  go  in  there  and  clean  up  the 
rooms  and  make  a  place  for  Mrs.  Gage.  You'll  find 
everything  for  cooking  and  housekeeping.  Don't  touch 
anything  else.  I'm  taking  his  Chink  over  to  my  place." 

"Are  you  going  there  with  the  women?"  he  inquired, 
turning  to  Sim  Gage. 

Sim  colored.  "No.  Wid  and  me'll  be  over  with 
the  soldiers.  We're  going  to  stick  together." 

"Better  bunk  in  my  shack,  then.  Go  over  to  the 
barracks,  both  of  you,  and  get  rifles  and  an  extra 
pistol  each.  I  want  both  of  you  on  patrol." 

"You  see,"  he  explained,  as  he  drew  the  two  apart, 
"we  don't  know  what  those  anarchist  ruffians  up  there 
may  do.  They  may  drop  down  here  by  either  fork  any 
time,  day  or  night." 

He  spoke  briefly  also  to  Mary  Gage  before  he  handed 
her  in  at  the  door  of  her  new  domicile: 

"Sim  and  Wid  both  think  that  only  one  car  went 
back  up  the  road  above  the  ranch.  That  means  that 

256 


the  other  car  is  up  in  the  mountains  between  the  Two 
Forks,  probably  in  the  Reserve.  For  a  time  there 
probably  won't  anything  happen.  You  mustn't  be 
scared — we're  just  taking  the  proper  precautions  now. 
This  is  very  valuable  Government  property." 

"Are  we  at  the  dam  here?"  asked  Mary  Gage.  "I 
can  hear  the  water — it's  very  heavy,  isn't  it?" 

"It  never  stops.  We  don't  hear  it,  because  we're 
used  to  it— I  don't  think  it  will  bother  you  very  long. 
.We'll  try  to  make  you  comfortable." 

He  turned,  offering  her  his  arm,  on  which  he  placed 
her  hand.  He  was  a  trifle  surprised  to  see  that  Sim 
Gage  without  a  word  had  passed  to  the  other  side  of 
his  wife,  also  giving  her  an  arm.  He  walked  along 
slowly  and  gravely,  limping,  silent  as  he  had  been  all 
the  afternoon,  but  made  no  sign  of  his  own  discomfort, 
indeed  did  not  speak  at  all. 

"Both  of  you  are  fit  for  the  hospital.  Well,  all 
right,  it  may  be  a  good  place  for  you  after  all."  As 
he  spoke,  frowning,  Doctor  Barnes  stood  back  and 
allowed  Annie  to  lead  Mary  Gage  into  the  vacated 
rooms  of  the  chief  engineer. 

"Doc,  what  did  you  mean  when  you  said  that  there 
just  now?"  asked  Sim  Gage,  when  they  turned  back 
from  the  door.  "About  her  and  the  hospital?" 

"I've  brought  her  down  here,  Sim,"  said  Doctor 
Barnes  directly,  "principally  because,  with  her  consent 
and  yours,  I  want  to  see  if  I  can't  do  something  for 
her  eyes." 

"Her  eyes!    Why — what  do  you  mean?" 
257 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"There's  one  chance  in  a  hundred  that  she'll  see 
again." 

Doctor  Allen  Barnes,  his  face  unshaven,  dirty,  hag 
gard,  a  man  looking  neither  major  nor  physician  now, 
turned  squarely  to  the  man  whom  he  addressed.  "I 
don't  know  for  sure,"  said  he,  "but  then,  it  may  be 
true." 

"Her  eyes? —    Her  eyes!" 

Doctor  Barnes  felt  on  his  arm  as  savage  a  grip  as 
he  ever  had  known.  Sim  Gage's  face  changed  as  he 
turned  away. 

"Good  God  A'mighty!  If  she  could  seel"  His 
own  face  seemed  suddenly  pale  beneath  its  grime. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

BEFORE  DAWN 

A  DAY  passed,  two,  and  three.     Nothing  came 
to  break  the  monotony  at  the  big  dam.    Don 
key  engines  screamed  intermittently.     Work 
men  still  passed  here  or  there  with  their  barrows. 
Teams  strained  at  heavy  loads  of  gravel  and  cement. 
The  general  labor  in  the  way  of  finishing  touches  on 
the  undertaking  still  went  on  under  the  care  of  the 
foremen,  monotonously  regular.     No  one  knew  that 
Waldhorn,  chief  engineer,  was  a  prisoner  under  guard. 

Mary  Gage  was  more  ignorant  than  any  prisoner  of 
what  went  on  about  her.  A  hard  lot,  that  of  waiting 
at  any  time,  but  the  waiting  of  the  newly  blind — 
there  is  no  human  misery  to  equal  it.  It  seemed  at 
times  to  her  she  must  go  mad. 

She  recognized  the  footfall  of  Doctor  Barnes  when 
one  morning  she  heard  it  on  the  gallery  floor  inside 
the  slamming  screen  door.  "Come  in,"  she  said, 
meeting  him.  "What  is  it?" 

He  entered  without  any  speech,  cast  himself  into  a 
chair.  She  knew  he  was  looking  at  her  steadfastly. 

"Well,"  said  she,  feeling  herself  color  slightly.  Still 
he  did  not  answer.  She  shifted  uneasily. 

259 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"What  are  you  doing?"  she  demanded,  just  a  trace 
of  the  personal  in  her  tone. 

"Eavesdropping  again.  Staring.  This  is  the  day 
when  I  say  good-by  to  you.  I've  come  to  say  my 
good-by  now." 

"Why  should  it  be  like  that?"  she  asked  after  a 
time. 

"Will  you  be  happy?" 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  leaned  forward  as  he 
spoke. 

"You  left  a  happy  world  behind  you.  Do  you  want 
to  see  this  world  now,  this  sordid,  bloody,  torn  and 
worn  old  world,  so  full  of  everything  but  joy  and 
justice?  Do  you  want  to  see  it  any  more ?  Why?" 

"It  is  my  right  to  see  the  world,"  said  Mary  Gage 
simply.  "I  want  to  see  life.  There's  not  much  risk 
left  for  me.  But  you  talk  as  though  things  were 
final." 

"I'm  going  away.     Let's  not  talk  at  all.'' 

For  a  long  time  she  sat  silent. 

"Don't  you  think  that  in  time  we  forget  things?" 

"I  suppose  in  ten  years  I  will  forget  things — in 
part." 

"Nonsense!  In  five  years — two — you'll  be  mar 
ried." 

"So  you  think  that  of  me?"  said  he  after  a  time. 
"Fine!" 

"But  you  have  always  told  me  that  life  is  life,  you 
know." 

"Yes,  sometimes  I  have  tried  my  hand  at  scien- 
260 


BEFORE  DAWN 

tific  reasoning.  But  when  I  say  ten  years  for  forget 
ting  anything,  that's  pathological  diagnosis,  and  not 
personal.  I  try  to  reason  that  time  will  cure  any  in 
organic  disease  just  as  time  cures  the  sting  of  death. 
Otherwise  the  world  could  not  carry  its  grief  and  do 
its  work.  The  world  is  sick,  near  to  death.  It  must 
have  time.  So  must  I.  I  can't  stay  here  and  work 
any  more.  If  you  can  see — if  you  get  well  and  nor 
mal  again — I'll  be  here." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily.  He  wanted  to  t^ke 
her  face  between  his  hands. 

"Oh,  I'll  not  leave  here  until  everything  is  right 
with  your  case.  There's  good  excuse  for  me  to  go 
out.  It  will  be  for  you  the  same  as  though  we  had 
never  met  at  all." 

"That's  fine  of  you!     So  you  believe  that  of  me?" 

"Why  not?  I  must.  You're  married.  That's  out 
side  my  province  now.  I've  just  come  to  tell  you 
now  that  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  wait  any  longer 
about  your  eyes.  We'll  try  this  afternoon,  in  our 
little  hospital  here.  I  wish  my  old  preceptor  were 
here;  but  Annie  will  help  me  all  she  can,  and  I'll  do 
my  very  best." 

"I'm  quite  ready." 

"I  don't  know  whether  or  not  to  be  glad  that  you 
have  no  curiosity  about  your  own  case,"  he  said  pres 
ently. 

"That  only  shows  you  how  helpless  I  am.  I  have 
no  choice.  I  have  lost  my  own  identity." 

261 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Didn't  your  doctor  back  in  Cleveland  tell  you  any 
thing  about  what  was  wrong  with  your  eyes?" 

"He  said  at  first  it  was  retinal;  then  he  said  it  was 
iritis.  He  didn't  like  to  answer  any  questions." 

"The  old  way — adding  to  all  the  old  mummeries 
of  the  most  mumming  of  all  professions — medicine! 
That  dates  back  to  bats'  wings  and  toads'  livers  as 
cure  for  the  spleen.  But  at  least  and  at  last  he  said 
it  was  iritis?" 

"Yes.  He  told  me  that  I  might  gradually  lose  one 
eye — which  was  true.  He  thought  the  trouble  might 
advance  to  the  other  eye.  It  came  out  that  way.  He 
must  have  known." 

"Perhaps  he  knew  part,"  said  Doctor  Barnes.  "You 
had  some  pain?" 

"Unbearable  pain  part  of  the  time — over  the  eyes, 
in  the  front  of  the  head." 

"Didn't  your  doctor  tell  you  what  iritis  meant?" 

"No.  I  suppose  inflammation  of  the  eyes — the 
iris." 

"Precisely.  Now,  just  because  you're  a  woman  of 
intelligence  I'm  going  to  try  to  give  you  a  little  ex 
planation  of  your  trouble,  so  you  will  know  what  you 
are  facing." 

"I  wish  you  would." 

"Very  well.  Now,  you  must  think  of  the  eye  as 
a  lens,  but  one  made  up  of  cells,  of  tissues.  It  can 
know  inflammation.  As  a  result  of  many  inflamma 
tions  there  is  what  we  call  an  exudation — a  liquid 
passes  from  the  tissues.  This  may  be  thin  or  serum- 

262 


BEFORE  DAWN 

like,  or  it  may  be  heavier,  something  like  granula 
tions.  The  tissues  are  weak — they  exude  something 
in  their  distress,  in  their  attempt  to  correct  this  con 
dition  when  they  have  been  inflamed. 

"The  pupil  of  your  eye  is  the  aperture,  the  stop 
of  the  lens.  That  is  the  hole  through  which  the  light 
passes.  Around  it  lie  the  tissues  of  the  iris.  In  the 
back  of  the  eye  is  the  retina,  which  acts  as  a  film  for 
the  eye's  picture. 

"Now,  it  was  the  part  of  the  eye  around  that  open 
ing  which  got  inflamed  and  began  to  exude.  Such 
inflammation  may  come  from  eye-strain,  sometimes 
from  glare  like  furnace  heat,  or  the  reflection  of  the 
sun  on  the  snow.  Snow-blindness  is  sometimes  pain 
ful.  Why  ?  Iritis. 

"In  any  case,  a  chronic  irritation  came  into  your 
case  some  time.  Little  by  little  there  came  a  heavy 
exudation  around  the  edges  of  the  inflamed  iris.  It 
was  so  heavy  that  we  call  it  a  'plastic'  exudation. 
Now,  that  was  what  was  the  technical  trouble  of  your 
eye — plastic  exudation. 

"This  exudation,  or  growth,  as  we  might  call  it, 
went  on  from  the  edges  of  the  iris  until  it  met  in 
the  middle  of  the  pupil.  Then  there  was  spread 
across  the  aperture  of  your  lens  an  opaque  granu 
lated  curtain  through  which  light  could  not  pass. 
Therefore  you  could  not  see.  The  plastic  exudation 
had  done  its  evil  work  as  the  result  of  the  iritis — that 
is  to  say,  of  the  sufferings  of  the  iris." 

263 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"I  begin  to  understand,"  said  Mary  Gage.  "That 
covers  what  seemed  to  happen." 

"It  covers  it  precisely,  for  that  is  precisely  what 
did  happen.  It  was  not  cataract.  I  knew,  or  thought 
I  knew,  that  it  was  not  from  retinal  scars  due  to  in 
flammation  in  the  back  of  the  eye.  It  was  just  a  fill 
ing  up  of  the  opening  of  the  eye. 

"So  I  know  you  lost  sight  in  that  last  eye  little  by 
little,  as  you  did  in  the  other.  You  kept  on  knitting 
all  the  time.  On  your  way  out  you  struck  the  glare 
from  the  white  sands  of  the  plains  in  the  dry  coun 
try.  At  once  the  inflammation  finished  its  exuda 
tion — and  you  were  blind." 

She  sat  motionless. 

"Sometimes  we  take  off  the  film  of  a  cataract  from 
the  eye;  sometimes  even  we  can  take  out  the  crystalline 
lens  and  substitute  a  heavy  lens  in  glasses  to  be  worn 
by  the  patient." 

"But  in  my  case  you  intend  to  cut  out  that  exu 
dation  from  the  pupil?" 

"No.  I  wish  we  could.  What  we  do  is  to  cut 
a  little  key-hole  aperture,  not  through  the  pupil,  but 
at  one  side  the  pupil.  In  other  words,  I've  got  to 
make  an  artificial  pupil — it  will  be  just  a  little  at  one 
side  of  the  middle  of  the  eye.  You  will  hardly  notice 
it." 

"But  that  will  mean  I  cannot  see !" 

"On  the  contrary,  it  will  mean  that  you  can  see. 
Remember,  your  eye  is  a  lens.  Suppose  you  put  a 
piece  of  black  paper  over  a  part  of  your  lens — paste 

264 


BEFORE  DAWN 

it  there.  You  will  find  that  you  can  still  make  pic 
tures  with  that  lens,  and  that  they  will  not  be  dis 
torted.  Not  quite  so  much  illumination  will  get  into 
the  lens,  but  the  picture  will  be  the  same.  Therefore 
you  will  see,  and  see  finely. 

"Now,  you  must  not  be  uneasy,  and  you  must  not 
think  of  this  merely  as  an  interesting  experiment  just 
because  you  have  not  heard  of  it  before.  My  old  pre 
ceptor,  Fuller  of  Johns  Hopkins,  did  this  operation 
often,  and  almost  always  with  success.  He  could  do 
it  better  than  I,  but  I  am  the  best  that  offers,  and  it 
must  be  done  now. 

"There  is  a  very  general  human  shrinking  from- 
the  thought  of  any  operation  on  the  eye — it  is  so  deli 
cate,  so  sensitive  in  every  way,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
science  can  do  many  things  by  way  of  operation  upon 
the  eye.  If  I  did  not  think  I  could  give  you  back 
your  sight,  you  may  be  sure  I  should  never  undertake 
this  work  to-day.  The  operation  is  known  technically 
as  iridectomy.  That  would  mean  nothing  to  you  if 
I  had  not  tried  to  explain  it. 

"Of  course  there  will  be  wounds  in  the  tissues  of 
the  iris  which  must  be  healed.  There  must  not  be 
any  more  inflammation.  That  means  that  for  some 
time  after  the  operation  your  eyes  must  be  bandaged, 
and  you  will  remain  in  absolute  darkness.  You  will 
have  to  keep  on  the  bandages  for  a  week  or  more— 
you  understand  that.  If  after  hearing  this  explana 
tion  you  do  not  wish  to  go  forward,  this  is  the  time 
to  let  me  know." 

265 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"I  am  quite  ready,"  said  Mary  Gage.  "As  though 
I  could  ever  thank  you  enough!" 

"Let  me  remain  in  your  memory,  as  a  picturesque 
and  noble  figure,  my  dear  lady!  Think  of  me  as  a 
Sir  Galahad,  which  I  am  not.  Picture  me  of  lofty 
carriage  and  beautiful  countenance,  which  is  not  true. 
Imagine  me  as  a  pleasing  and  masterful  personality 
in  every  way — which  I  am  not.  You  will  not  meet 
me  face  to  face." 

"I've  been  praying  for  my  sight  when  it  didn't  seem 
to  be  any  use  to  have  faith  in  Goa  any  more.  If  I 
should  get  back  my  eyes  I  would  always  have  faith 
in  prayer.  But — the  other  day  you  told  me  I'd  not  be 
married,  then!  May  not  a  blind  woman  be  a  mar 
ried  woman  also?" 

"No!  Not  if  she  never  saw  her  husband.  How 
could  she  ever  have  chosen,  have  selected  ?  How  could 
either  her  body  or  her  soul  ever  have  seen?" 

She  rose  before  him  suddenly.  "You  say  that!" 
She  choked.  "You  say  that,  who  helped  put  me  where 
I  am!  And  now  you  say  you  are  going  away — and 
you  say  that's  all  wrong,  my  being  married!  What 
do  you  mean?" 

"If  I  gave  you  back  your  eyes  and  your  life,  isn't 
that  something?" 

"Why,  no !  A  fight  which  isn't  fought  is  worse  than 
defeat.  But  you're  talking  as  though  you  really  meant 
to  go  away  and  leave  me — always!" 

"Yes.  I've  come  to  say  good-by — and  then  to 
266 


BEFORE  DAWN 

operate.  Two  this  afternoon.  Annie  will  come  for 
you.  I  have  told  her  what  to  do." 

"And  my  husband  ?" 

"Said  he  couldn't  stand  it  to  see  you  hurt.  Said  he 
would  stand  outside  the  door,  but  that  he  couldn't 
come  in.  Said  he  would  be  right  there  all  the  time. 
There's  a  great  man,  Mrs.  Gage." 

"And  you  are  a  very  wise  man,  are  you  not!"  said 
she  suddenly,  smiling  at  him  slowly,  her  dark  eyes 
full  upon  him. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  so  much  you  know  about  life  and  duty  and 
the  rights  of  everybody  else!  If  I  had  my  eyes,  I'd 
not  be  married!  Did  you  ever  stop  to  think  what 
you  have  been  taking  into  your  own  hands  here?" 

"Go  on,"  said  he.     "I've  got  it  coming." 

"Well,  one  thing  you've  forgotten.  I've  been  a 
problem  and  a  trouble  and  a  nuisance — yes.  But  I'm 
a  woman!  You  treat  me  as  though  I  were  a  pawn, 
a  doll.  I'm  tired  of  it.  I  ought  to  tell  you  some 
thing,  for  fear  you'll  really  go  away,  and  give  me  no 
chance." 

"I  ought  to  have  as  much  courage  as  you're  show 
ing  now."  He  smiled,  wryly. 

"Then,  if  you  have  courage,  you  ought  to  stay  here 
and  see  things  through.  You  tell  me  this  is  right  and 
this  is  not  right — how  do  you  know?  I  owe  you  very 
much — but  ought  you  to  decide  everything  for  me? 
Let  me  also  be  the  judge.  If  there's  any  problem 
in  these  matters,  anything  unsaid,  let's  face  it  all. 

267 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

Cut  into  my  eyes,  but  don't  cut  into  my  soul  any  more. 
If  you  gave  me  back  my  sight,  and  did  not  give  me 
back  every  unsettled  problem,  with  all  the  facts  be 
fore  me  to  settle  it  at  last,  you  would  leave  me  with 
unhappiness  hanging  over  me  as  long  as  ever  I  lived. 
Not  even  my  eyes  would  pay  me  for  it." 

She  rose,  stumbling,  reaching  out  a  hand  to  save 
herself ;  and  he  dared  not  touch  her  hand  even  to  aid 
her  now. 

"Oh,  fine  of  you  all,"  she  said  bitterly.  "Did  the 
Emperor  of  Prussia  ever  do  more?  You,  whom  I 
have  never  seen  in  all  my  life!  Any  situation  that  is 
hard  here  for  you — take  it.  Haven't  I  done  as  much  ? 
If  there's  any  other  fight  on  ahead  unsettled  for  you, 
can't  you  fight  it  out?  Can't  you  give  me  the  privi 
lege — since  you've  been  talking  of  a  woman's  rights 
and  privileges — to  fight  out  my  own  battles  too — to 
fight  out  all  of  life's  fights,  even  to  take  all  of  its 
losses?  I'd  rather  have  it  that  way.  That  means  I 
want  to  see  you,  who  you  are,  what  you  are,  whether 
you  are  good,  whether  you  are  just,  whether  you  are 
light,  whether 

"You  have  a  keen  mind,"  said  he  slowly.  "You're 
telling  me  to  stay  here.  If  we  could  meet  face  to  face 
as  though  you  never  had  been  blind — why,  then — 
I  might  say  something  or  do  something  which  would 
make  you  feel  that  I  believed  you  never  had  been  mar 
ried.  I  have  told  you  that  already." 

"Yes!  Then  surely  you  will  not  go  away.  Be 
cause  you  have  brought  up  a  problem  between  you 

268 


BEFORE  DAWN 

and  me Aren't  we  big  enough  to  fight  that  out 

between  us  ?  Ought  we  not  ?  Give  me  my  eyes !  Give 
me  my  rights! 

"Why,  listen,"  she  went  on  more  gently,  less  ar- 
gumentatively,  "just  the  other  day,  when  we  were 
talking  over  this  question  about  my  eyes,  I  called 
out  to  you  when  you  went  away,  and  you  did  not 
hear  me.  I  said  No ;  I  would  not  take  my  eyes  from 
you  and  pay  the  price.  I  said  it  would  be  sweeter 
to  be  blind  and  remain  deceived.  But  that's  gone 
by.  I've  been  thinking  since  then.  Now  I  want  it 
all — all!  I  want  all  the  fight  of  it,  all  the  risk  of 
it  Then,  after  I've  taken  my  chance  and  made  my 
fight,  I  want  all  the  joy  of  it  or  all  the  sorrow  of  it 
at  the  end!  I  want  life!  Don't  you?  I've  always 
had  the  feeling  that  you  were  a  strong  man.  I  don't 
want  anything  I  haven't  earned.  I'll  never  give  what 
hasn't  been  earned.  I  won't  ever  pray  for  what  isn't 
mine." 

"Now  I'm  ready,"  she  repeated  simply.  "I  can't 
talk  any  more,  and  you  mustn't.  Good-by." 

She  felt  her  hand  caught  tight  in  both  of  his,  but 
he  could  not  speak  to  his  hand  clasp.  "At  two !"  was 
all  he  managed  to  say. 

And  so,  in  this  far-off  spot  in  the  wilderness,  the 
science  of  to-day,  not  long  after  two  by  the  clock, 
had  done  what  it  might  to  remedy  nature's  unkind- 
ness,  and  to  make  Mary  Gage  as  other  women.  When 
the  sun  had  dropped  back  of  its  shielding  mountain 
wall,  Mary  Gage  lay  still  asleep,  her  eyes  bandnged, 

269 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

in  her  darkened  room.  Whether  at  length  she  would 
awaken  to  darkness  or  to  light,  none  could  tell.  Allen 
Barnes  only  knew  that,  tried  as  never  he  had  been  in 
all  his  life  before,  he  had  done  his  surgeon's  work 
unfalteringly. 

"Doc,"  said  Sim  Gage  tremblingly,  when  they  met 
upon  the  gravel  street  in  the  straggling  little  camp, 
each  white-faced  from  fatigue,  "tell  me  how  long  be 
fore  we'll  know." 

"Three  or  four  days  at  least    We'll  have  to  wait." 

"You're  sure  she'll  see?" 

"I  hope  so.     I  think  so." 

"What'll  she  see  first?" 

"Light." 

"Who'll  she  see  first,  Doc — Annie,  you  reckon?" 

"If  she  asks  for  you,  let  her  see  you  first,"  said 
Doctor  Barnes.  "That's  your  right." 

"No,"  said  Sim  Gage,  "no,  I  don't  think  so.  I 
think  she'd  ought  to  see  you  first,  because  you're  the 
doctor.  A  doctor,  now,  he  ain't  like  folks,  you  know. 
He's  just  the  doctor." 

"Yes,  he's  just  the  doctor,  Gage,  that's  all." 

He  left  Sim  Gage  standing  in  the  road,  looking 
steadfastly  at  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE  BLIND  SEE 

TO  those  waiting  for  the  threatened  attack  upon 
the  power  dam,  the  mere  torment  of  continued 
inaction  became  intolerable,  but  as  to  material 
danger,  nothing  definite  came.  The  keen-eyed  young 
soldiers  on  their  beat  night  after  night,  day  after  day, 
caught  no  sight  or  sound  of  any  lurking  enemy,  and 
began  to  feel  resentment  at  the  arduous  hours  asked 
of  them.  Once  in  a  while  one  trooper  would  say  to 
another  that  he  saw  no  sense  in  people  getting  scared 
at  nothing  out  in  No  Man's  Land.  The  laborers  of 
the  camp  were  more  or  less  incurious.  They  did  their 
allotted  hours  of  labor  each  day,  passed  at  night 
to  the  bunk  house,  and  fell  into  a  snake-like  torpor. 
Life  seemed  quiet  and  innocuous.  Liquor  was  pro 
hibited.  The  regime  was  military.  Soon  after  the 
bugle  had  sounded  Retreat  each  evening  the  raw  little 
settlement  became  silent,  save  for  the  unending  re 
quiem  to  hope  which  the  great  waters  charing  through 
the  turbines  continually  moaned.  It  was  apparently 
a  place  of  peace. 

Doctor  Barnes  felt  reasonably  sure  that  the  attack, 
if  any,  would  come  through  the  valley  at  the  lower 

271 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

dam,  for  that  would  be  the  only  practical  entry  point 
of  the  marauders  marooned  somewhere  back  in  the 
hills.  The  trail  between  these  two  dams  lay  almost 
wholly  above  the  rocky  river  bed.  It  would  have  been 
difficult  if  not  impossible  to  patrol  the  bed  of  the  river 
itself,  for  close  to  the  water's  edge  there  were  places 
where  no  foothold  could  have  been  obtained  even 
now,  low  as  the  water  was.  Therefore  it  seemed  most 
'needful  to  watch  the  main  wagon  trail  along  the  can 
yon  shelf. 

It  was  sun-fall  of  the  third  day  after  Doctor  Barnes 
had  left  Mary  Gage  for  her  long  wait  in  the  dark. 
The  men  had  finished  their  work  about  the  great 
dam,  and  were  on  their  way  to  their  quarters.  Sim 
Gage,  scout,  beginning  his  night's  work  and  having 
ended  his  own  attempt  at  sleep  during  the  daytime, 
was  passing,  hatted  and  belted,  rifle  in  hand,  to  the 
barracks,  where  he  was  to  speak  with  the  lieutenant 
in  charge.  The  two  men  of  the  color  guard  stood 
at  the  foot  of  the  great  staff,  dressed  out  of  a  tall 
mountain  spruce,  at  whose  top  fluttered  the  flag  of  this 
republic.  The  shrilling  of  the  bugle's  beautiful  sa 
lute  to  the  flag  was  ringing  far  and  near  along  the 
canyon  walls.  The  flag  began  to  drop,  slowly,  into 
the  arms  of  the  waiting  man  who  had  given  oath  of 
his  life  to  protect  it  always,  and  to  keep  it  still  full 
high  advanced.  It  must  never  touch  the  earth  at  all, 
but  remain  a  creature  of  the  air — that  is  the  tradition 
of  our  Army  and  all  the  Army's  proud  color  guards. 

Sim  Gage  stopped  now,  as  every  man  in  that  en- 
272 


THE  BLIND  SEE 

campment,  soldier  or  laborer,  had  been  trained  punc 
tiliously  to  do,  at  the  evening  gun.  He  stood  at  at 
tention,  like  these  others ;  for  Sim  Gage  was  a  soldier, 
or  thought  he  was.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  this 
strange  thing,  this  creature  called  the  Flag.  A  strange, 
fierce  jealousy  arose  in  his  heart  for  it,  a  savage  love, 
as  though  it  were  a  thing  that  belonged  to  him.  His 
chest  heaved  now  in  the  feeling  that  he  was  identi 
fied  with  this  guard,  waiting  for  the  colors  to  come 
to  rest  and  shelter  after  the  day  of  duty.  It  stirred 
him  in  a  way  which  he  did  not  understand.  A  sim 
ple,  unintelligent  man,  of  no  great  shrewdness,  though 
free  of  any  maudlin  sentiment,  he  stood  fast  in  the 
mid-street  and  saluted  the  flag,  not  because  he  was 
obliged  to  do  so,  but  because  he  passionately  craved  to 
do  so. 

He  turned  to  meet  Annie  Squires,  who  was  hurry 
ing  away  from  her  own  quarters.  She  held  in  her 
hand  a  letter  which  she  waved  at  him  as  she  ap 
proach. 

"Look-it  here!"  she  exclaimed.  "Look  what  I 
found.  Where's  the  Doc?  I  want  to  see  him  right 
away." 

"He's  like  enough  down  at  the  lower  dam  by  now," 
said  Sim. 

"Well,  he'd  ought  to  see  this." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Sim,  looking  at  it  question- 
ingly.  "Who's  it  to?" 

"Who's  it  to?"  said  Annie  Squires.  "Why,  it's  to 
Charlie  Dorenwald,  that's  who  it's  to !" 

273 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"What?  That  feller  that  was  up  there — one  you 
said  you  knew  before  you  come  out  here?" 

"Yes.  But  how  does  this  Waldhorn  chump  in 
there  know  anything  about  Charlie  Dorenwald? 
That's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"What  chump?     Mr.  Waldhorn?" 

"I  found  this  in  his  desk.  Well,  I  wasn't  rummag 
ing  in  his  desk,  but  I  had  to  slick  things  up,  and  I 
saw  it.  I  only  run  on  it  by  accident." 

"What's  in  it?"  said  Sim  Gage. 

"Well,  now,"  said  Annie,  naively,  "I  only  just 
steamed  it  a  little.  It  rolled  open  easy  with  a  pen 
holder." 

"Huh.     What  you  find  in  it?" 

"Why,  nothing  but  nonsense,  that's  what  I  found. 
Listen  here.  Trice  wheat  next  year  two-nineteen 
sharp  signal  general  satisfaction.'  Now,  what  does 
that  mean?  That's  foolishness.  That  man's  a  nut! 
I  bet  he  gets  alone  up  in  here  and  smokes  hop,  that's 
what  he  does,  all  by  himsef.  No  one  but  a  dope  fiend 
would  pull  stuff  like  that. 

"But  still,"  she  added,  a  finger  at  chin,  "what  both 
ers  me  is,  how  does  Charlie  know  Waldhorn?  Un 
less " 

"Unless  what?"  asked  Sim  Gage,  his  brows  sud 
denly  contracting. 

"Unless  they're  both  in  on  this  deal !  What  do  you 
suppose  the  Doc  thinks?  What  makes  him  keep  this 
Waldhorn  close  as  he  does?  Is  he  a  prisoner?" 

"No,  I  reckon  not.  We  all  just  got  orders  to  shoot 
274 


THE  BLIND  SEE 

him  if  he  tries  to  get  away.  I  think  Doc's  holding-  him 
until  he  gets  word  in  from  outside.  Things  seems 
to  me  to  move  mighty  slow." 

"Well,  this  letter's  addressed  to  Charlie  Dorenwald, 
and  anything  that's  got  Charlie  Dorenwald's  name  on 
it  is  crooked,  and  you  can  gamble  on  that.  Can't  you 
find  the  Doc?" 

As  it  happened,  Doctor  Barnes  had  not  yet  left  his 
quarters  for  his  nightly  trip  to  the  lower  canyon.  He 
had  been  trying  to  sleep.  He  rose  now,  full-clad  and 
all  awake,  when  he  caught  sight  of  Sim  Gage's  face 
at  his  door. 

"What's  up?"  he  said. 

"This  here,"  said  Sim,  "is  a  letter  that  Annie  brung 
me  out  of  the  house  where  them  two  is  living.  She 
says  she  found  it  in  there.  We  can't  make  nothing  out 
of  it.  Seems  like  this  Waldhorn  here  had  something 
to  say  to  Charlie  Dorenwald.  Annie  says  it's  the  same 
Dorenwald  that  was  up  above,  at  the  ranch,  the  one 
Wid  didn't  get.  Well,  how  come  him  and  Waldhorn 
to  know  each  other,  that's  what  I  want  to  know.  So 
does  Annie." 

"What  I  want  to  know,  too!"  said  Doctor  Barnes, 
reaching  out  his  hand. 

"Annie  says  it's  plumb  nutty,  the  stuff  in  it,"  com 
mented  Sim.  The  other  looked  at  him  quizzically. 

"She  read  it  then?" 

He  read  it  now,  himself,  and  stood  stiff  and  straight 
at  reading.  "This  is  a  cypher — code  stuff!  They 
know  what  it  means,  and  we  don't.  'Two-nineteen 

275 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

sharp* — I  wonder  what  that  means !  This  is  the  nine 
teenth  day  of  the  month,  isn't  it?  'Signal  general  sat 
isfaction' — Lord!  I'd  give  anything  for  a  good 
night's  sleep.  Gage,  go  on  over  and  tell  all  the  men 
to  keep  full  dressed,  and  with  equipment  handy  all 
night  long.  I  don't  have  any  clear  guess  what  this 
is  all  about,  but  we  can't  take  any  chances." 

"Wid,  he  thinks  them  fellers  ain't  coming  down 
here  a-tall,"  said  Sim  confidentially. 

"He  doesn't  know  anything  more  about  it  than  I 
do  or  you  do,"  said  Doctor  Barnes  somewhat  testily. 
"You  go  and  tell  Annie  to  shut  that  desk  up,  and  see 
that  she  keeps  it  shut.  I'm  coming  over  to  seal  it 
up." 

Annie  Squires  meantime  had  hastened  back  to  dis 
cuss  these  matters  with  her  patient  in  the  hospital 
room.  It  only  added  more  to  the  nervous  strain  that 
already  tormented  Mary  Gage. 

"Annie,  I'm  scared!"  she  whispered.  "Oh!  if  I 
could  only  take  care  of  myself.  Tell  me,  Annie — I'll 
get  well,  won't  I?" 

"Sure  thing,  Kid — it's  a  cinch." 

"Where  is  he?"  Mary  demanded  after  some  hesi 
tation. 

"Who?  Him?"  Annie  employed  her  usual  fash 
ion  of  indicating  the  identity  of  Sim  Gage. 

"No,  I  mean  Doctor  Barnes. 

"He'll  be  going  down  below  pretty  soon.  He 
don't  know  anything  more  than  I  do  about  what  that 
fool  stuff  in  the  letter  means." 

276 


"But  say,"  she  added  after  a  time,  "I  been  kind  of 
looking  around  in  desks  and  places,  you  know — I  have 
to  red  things  up — and  I  run  across  another  thing, 
some  more  writing." 

"You  mustn't  do  these  things,  Annie!  It  may  be 
private." 

"Oh,  no,  it  ain't.  It's  only  some  writing  copied 
from  a  magazine,  like  enough.  It  was  on  one  of  the 
desks  in  this  house — just  in  there." 

"Copied?— What  is  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  Poetry  stuff — sounds  mushy.  I 
didn't  know  men  would  do  things  like  copying  out 
poetry  from  magazines.  Never  heard  of  Mr.  Symonds 
-did  you?" 

"How  can  I  tell,  Annie?" 

"I'll  read  it  for  you  if  you'll  let  me.  It's  dark,  in 
here — I'll  just  go  outside  the  door  and  read  it  through 
the  crack  at  you,  so's  the  light  won't  hurt  you  any 
ways." 

And  so,  faintly,  as  from  a  detached  intelligence, 
there  came  into  Mary  Gage's  darkened  room,  her 
darkened  life,  some  words  well-written,  ill-read,  which 
it  seemed  to  her  she  might  have  dreamed: 

"As  a  perfume  doth  remain 

In  the  folds  where  it  hath  lain, 

So  the  thought  of  you,  remaining 

Deeply  folded  in  my  brain, 

Will  not  leave  me;  all  things  leave  me: 

You  remain. 

277 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"Other  thoughts  may  come  and  go, 
Other  moments  I  may  know 
That  shall  waft  me,  in  their  going, 
As  a  breath  blown  to  and  fro. 
Fragrant  memories ;  fragrant  memories 
Come  and  go. 

"Only  thoughts  of  you  remain 
In  my  heart  where  they  have  lain, 
Perfumed  thoughts  of  you,  remaining, 
A  hid  sweetness,  in  my  brain. 
Others  leave  me ;  all  things  leave  me : 
You  remain." 

"Read  them  over  again!"  said  Mary  Gage,  sitting 
upon  her  couch.  "Read  them  again,  Annie!  I  want 
to  learn  it  all  by  heart." 

And  Annie,  patient  as  ever,  read  the  words  over 
to  her.  The  keen  senses  of  Mary  Gage  recorded  them. 

"I  can  say  them  now !"  said  she,  as  much  to  herself 
as  to  her  friend.  And  she  did  say  them,  over  and 
over  again. 

"Annie,"  she  cried,  as  she  sat  up  suddenly.  "I 
can't  stand  it  any  more!  I  can  see!  I  can  see!" 

She  was  tearing  at  the  bandages  about  her  head 
when  Annie  entered  and  put  down  her  hands,  terri 
fied  at  this  disobedience  of  orders. 

"Annie,  I  know  1  can  see!  It  was  light — at  the 
door  there!  I  can  see.  I  can  see!"  She  began  to 
weep,  trembling. 

"Hush!"  said  Annie,  frightened.  "It  ain't  pos 
sible!  It  can't  be  true !  What  did  you  see?" 

278 


THE  BLIND  SEE 

"Nothing!"  said  Mary  Gage,  half  sobbing.  "Just 
the  light.  Don't  tell  him.  Put  back  the  bandage. 
But,  oh,  Annie,  Annie,  I  can  see!" 

"You're  talking  foolish,  Sis,"  said  Annie,  pinning 
the  bandages  all  the  tighter  about  the  piled  brown 
hair  of  Mary  Gage's  head. 

"But  say  now,"  she  added  after  that  was  done,  "if 
I  was  a  girl  and  a  fellow  felt  that  way  about  me — • 
couldn't  remember  nobody  but  me  that  way — why,  me 
for  him !  Mushy — but  times  comes  when  a  girl  falls 
strong  for  the  mushy,  huh? 

"Now  you  lay  down  again  and  cover  up  your  eyes 
and  rest,  or  you'll  never  be  seeing  things  again,  sure 
enough.  I  ain't  going  to  read  no  more  of  that  strong- 
arm  writing  at  all." 

Mary  Gage  heard  the  door  close,  heard  the  foot 
steps  of  her  friend  passing  down  the  little  hall.  She 
was  alone  again.  Her  heart  was  throbbing  high. 

What  she  first  had  seen  was  the  soul  of  a  man; 
a  man's  confession ;  his  recessional  as  well.  Now  she 
knew  that  he  was  indeed  going  away  from  her  life 
forever.  Which  had  been  more  cruel,  blindness  or 
vision  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  ENEMY 

THE  night  wore  on  slowly.  Midnight  struck, 
and  the  cold  of  the  mountain  night  had  reached 
its  maximum  chill.  To  the  ears  of  the  weary 
patrols  there  came  no  sound  save  the  continuous  com 
plaint  of  the  waters,  a  note  rising  and  falling,  increas 
ing  and  decreasing  in  volume,  after  the  strange  fash 
ion  of  waters  carried  by  the  chance  vagaries  of  the 
air.  At  times  the  sound  of  the  river  rose  to  great 
volume,  again  it  died  down  to  a  low  murmur,  the 
voice  of  a  beaten  giant  protesting  against  his  shackles. 
Came  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the  guards 
walked  their  beats  with  the  weariness  of  men  who 
have  fought  off  sleep  for  hours.  Sim  Gage,  sleepless 
so  long,  was  very  weary,  but  he  kept  about  his  work. 
At  intervals  of  half  an  hour  he  crunched  down  the 
gravel-faced  slope  of  the  bank  which  ran  from  the 
bench  level  to  the  foot  of  the  dam.  Here  he  walked 
along  the  level  of  the  great  eddy,  along  the  rocky 
shore,  examining  the  face  of  the  vast  concrete  wall 
itself,  gazing  also  as  he  always  did,  with  no  spe 
cial  purpose,  at  the  face  of  the  wide  and  long 

280 


THE  ENEMY 

apron  where  the  waters  foamed  over,  a  few  inches 
deep,  white  as  milk,  day  and  night. 

Any  attempt  at  the  use  of  dynamite  by  any  enemy 
naturally  would  be  made  on  this  lower  side  of  the 
dam.  There  were  different  places  which  might  nat 
urally  be  used  by  a  criminal  who  had  opportunity. 
One  of  these,  concealed  from  the  chance  glance  of 
any  officer,  was  back  under  the  apron,  behind  the 
half -completed  side  columns  of  the  spill  gate,  where 
a  great  buttress  came  out  to  flank  the  apron.  A 
charge  exploded  here  would  get  at  the  very  heart  of 
the  dam,  for  it  would  open  the  turbine  wells  and  the 
spillway  passage  which  had  been  provided  for  the 
controlled  outlet. 

Ragged  heaps  of  native  rock  lay  along  the  foot  of 
the  dam,  flanking  the  edge  of  the  great  eddy  east 
ward  of  the  apron.  Here  often  the  laborers  stood 
and  cast  their  lines  for  the  leaping  trout,  which,  wear 
ied  by  their  fruitless  fight  at  the  apron,  that  carried 
them  only  up  to  the  insurmountable  obstacle  which 
reached  a  hundred  feet  above  them,  sometimes  were 
swept  back  to  seek  relief  in  the  gentler  waters  of  the 
deep  eddy,  that  swung  inshore  from  the  lower  end 
of  the  apron. 

Sim  Gage  saw  all  these  scenes,  so  familiar  by  this 
time,  as  they  lay  half  revealed  under  the  blaze  of  the 
great  searchlight.  It  all  seemed  safe  now,  as  it  al 
ways  had  before. 

But  when  at  length  he  turned  back  to  ascend  to 
the  upper  level,  he  saw  something  which  caused  him 

281 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

to  stop  for  just  an  instant,  and  then  to  spring  into 
action. 

The  power  plant  proper  of  the  dam  was  not  yet 
wholly  installed,  only  the  dam  and  turbine-ways  being 
completed.  In  the  power  house  itself,  a  sturdy  build 
ing  of  rock  which  caught  hold  of  the  immemorial 
mountain  foot  beneath  it,  only  a  single  unit  of  the 
dynamos  had  been  installed.  This  unit  had  been 
hooked  on,  as  the  engineers  phrased  it,  in  order  to 
furnish  electric  light  to  the  camp  itself,  for  the  tele 
phone  service  of  the  valley  and  for  the  minor  ma 
chinery  which  was  operated  by  this  or  that  machine 
shop  along  the  side  of  the  mountain.  A  cable  from 
the  power  house  ran  up  to  another  house  known  as 
the  lighting  plant,  which  stood  in  the  angle  between 
the  street  level  and  the  dam  itself.  Here  was  in 
stalled  a  giant  searchlight  which  could  be  played  at 
will  along  the  face  of  the  dam,  to  make  its  examina 
tion  the  more  easy  and  exact  by  night.  The  steady 
stream  of  this  light  was  a  fixed  factor,  being  held  at 
such  a  position  as  would  cover  the  greatest  amount 
of  the  dam  face. 

Now,  as  Sim  Gage  topped  the  grade,  gravel  crunch 
ing  under  his  feet,  a  trifle  out  of  breath  with  his  climb, 
since  the  incline  itself  was  a  thing  of  magnificent  dis 
tances,  he  saw  the  searchlight  of  the  power  dam  begin 
a  performance  altogether  new  in  his  own  experience. 

The  great  shaft  of  light  rose  up  abruptly  to  a  posi 
tion  vertical,  a  beam  of  light  reaching  up  into  the 
sky.  An  instant,  and  it  began  to  swing  from  side  to 

282 


side.  It  swung  sharply  clear  against  the  bald  face 
of  the  mountain  at  the  farther  end  of  the  dam.  It 
swept  down  the  canyon  itself,  or  to  its  first  great  bend. 
It  rose  again  and  swept  across  the  dark-fringed  sum 
mit  of  the  mountains  on  the  hither  side  of  the  stream. 
Not  once,  but  twice,  this  was  done. 

It  was  a  splendid  and  magnificent  thing  itself,  this 
giant  eye,  illuminating  and  revealing,  fit  factor  in  a 
wild  and  imposing  panorama  of  the  night.  But  why? 
No  one  ever  had  known  the  searchlight  to  be  used  in 
this  way.  What  orders  had  been  given?  What  did 
these  zig-zag  beams  up  and  down  the  surface  of  the 
sky  indicate  ?  Was  it  a  signal,  or  was  some  one  play 
ing  with  the  property  of  the  Company,  there  in  the 
cupola  of  the  light  station? 

Sim  Gage  reached  the  side  of  the  plant  just  as  the 
light  came  down  to  its  original  duty  of  watching  the 
face  of  the  dam.  At  first  there  was  not  any  sound. 

"Who's  there?"  he  called  out.  No  answer  came. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  heard  some  sort  of  movement 
in  the  little  rock  house. 

"Halt!  Who  goes  there?"  he  called  out  in  a  for 
mula  he  had  learned. 

He  got  no  answer,  but  he  heard  a  thud  as  of  a  body 
dropping  out  of  the  window  of  the  "further  side  of 
the  house,  against  the  slope  of  the  dam  which  lay 
above  it. 

He  ran  around  the  corner  of  the  little  building, 
rifle  at  the  ready,  only  to  see  a  scrambling  figure,  bent 
over,  endeavoring  to  reach  the  top  of  the  dam,  where 

283 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

the  smooth  roadway  ran  from  side  to  side  of  the 
great  gorge.  That  way  lay  no  escape.  The  sentry 
was  across  yonder,  and  would  soon  return.  This 
way,  toward  the  east,  a  fugitive  must  go  if  he  would 
seek  any  point  of  emergence  from  these  surroundings. 

"Halt!  Halt  there!  Halt,  or  I'll  fire !"  cried  Gage. 
"Halt!"  He  called  it  out  again,  once,  twice,  three 
times.  But  the  figure,  whoever  or  whatever  it  was, 
ran  on.  It  now  had  reached  the  top  of  the  dam,  and 
could  be  seen  with  more  or  less  distinctness,  sky-lined 
against  the  starlight  and  the  gray  sky  behind  it. 

Sim  Gage,  old-time  hunter,  used  all  his  life  to  fire 
arms,  was  used  also  to  firing  at  running  game.  He 
drew  down  now  deep  into  the  rear  sight  of  his  Spring 
field,  allowing  for  the  faint  light,  and  held  at  the 
front  edge  of  the  running  figure  as  nearly  as  he 
could  tell.  He  fired  once,  twice  and  three  times — 
rap ! — rap ! — rap ! — the  echo  came  from  the  concrete — 
at  the  figure  as  it  crouched  and  stumbled  on.  Then 
it  stopped.  There  came  a  scrambling  and  a  sliding 
of  the  object,  which  fell  at  the  top  of  the  dam.  It 
slipped  off  the  dam  top  and  rolled  and  slid  almost  at 
his  feet.  He  dragged  it  down  into  the  edge  of  the 
beams  of  the  searchlight  itself. 

Up  to  this  time  he  had  not  known  or  suspected  who 
the  man  might  be.  At  first  he  now  thought  it  was  a 
woman.  In  reality  it  was  a  Chinaman,  the  cook  and 
body-servant  of  Waldhorn,  engineer  at  the  power 
operations!  He  was  dead. 

Sim  stood  looking  down  at  what  he  had  done,  try- 
284 


THE  ENEMY 

ing  in  his  slow  fashion  of  mind  to  puzzle  out  what 
this  man  had  been  doing  here,  and  why  he  had  come. 
He  heard  the  sound  of  running  feet  above  him,  heard 
challenges,  shouts,  every  way.  Others  had  heard  the 

shot.    "This  way,  fellers Come  along !"  he  heard 

Wid  Gardner  call  out,  high  and  clear;  for  that  night 
Wid  also  was  of  the  upper  guard. 

But  they  were  not  running  in  his  direction.  They 
seemed  to  be  back  on  the  street.  All  at  once  Sim 
Gage  solved  his  little  problem.  This  Chinaman  had 
been  sent  to  do  this  work — sent  by  the  owner  of  that 
house  yonder,  the  engineer,  Waldhorn.  That  prisoner 
must  not  escape  now.  He  knew !  It  was  he  who  had 
given  the  searchlight  signal !  Waldhorn — and  Doren- 
wald !  He  coupled  both  names  now  again. 

Sim  Gage  himself,  having  a  shorter  distance  to  go 
than  his  comrades,  left  his  dead  Chinaman,  and  start 
ed  after  the  man  higher  up.  He  reached  the  Wald 
horn  quarters  slightly  before  the  others. 

He  heard  the  screen  door  of  the  log  house  slam, 
saw  a  stout  and  burly  man  step  out,  satchel  in  hand. 
The  man  walked  hurriedly  toward  a  car  which  Sim 
Gage  had  not  noticed,  since  there  was  so  much  un 
used  machinery  about,  wheel  scrapers,  wagons,  plows 
and  the  like.  Now  he  saw  that  it  was  Waldhorn  and 
Waldhorn's  car.  He  was  taking  advantage  of  this 
confusion  to  make  his  own  escape. 

This  hurrying  figure  halted  for  a  half  instant  in 
the  dim  light,  for  he  heard  footsteps  on  each  side  of 
him.  He  knew  the  guard  was  coming. 

285 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

Sim  Gage's  summons  rang  high  and  clear.  Yonder 
was  the  man — he  was  going  to  escape.  He  must  not 
escape.  All  these  things  came  to  Sim  Gage's  mind  as 
he  half  raised  his  weapon  to  his  shoulder,  challeng 
ing  again,  "Halt!  Who  goes  there?  Halt!"  The 
bolt  of  his  Springfield  clinked  home  once  more. 

The  man  turned  away,  toward  the  sound  of  the 
greater  number  of  his  enemies,  weapon  in  hand.  The 
patrol  was  closing  in.  But  before  he  turned  he  both 
gave  and  received  death  in  the  last  act  he  might  offer 
in  treachery  to  this  country,  which  had  been  generous 
and  kind  to  him. 

Sim  Gage  fired  with  close,  sure  aim,  and  cut  his 
man  through  with  the  blow  of  the  Spitzer  bullet  of 
the  Springfield  piece.  But  even  as  he  did  so  Wald- 
horn  himself  had  fired  with  the  heavy  automatic  pis 
tol  which  he  carried.  The  bullet  caught  Sim  Gage 
high  in  the  chest,  and  passed  through,  missing  the 
spine  by  but  little.  He  sprawled  forward. 

Waldhorn's  body  was  no  better  than  a  sieve,  for  he 
received  the  £re  of  the  entire  squad  of  riflemen  who 
had  approached  from  the  other  side,  and  so  many 
bullets  struck  him,  again  and  again,  that  they  actu 
ally  held  him  up  from  falling  for  an  instant. 

Now  the  entire  street  filled.  Foreign  or  half-for 
eign  laboring  folk  came  out,  soldiers  and  sailor  boys 
came,  jabbering  in  a  score  of  tongues.  None  knew 
the  plot  of  the  drama  which  had  been  finished  now. 
All  they  knew  was  that  the  chief  engineer  had  beer 

286 


THE  ENEMY 

killed  by  the  guard.  Very  well,  but  who  had  shot 
Scout  Gage  ? 

Sim  Gage,  looking  up  at  the  sky,  felt  the  great  arm 
of  Flaherty,  the  foreman,  under  his  head. 

"Easy  now,  lad,"  said  the  big  man.  "Easy.  Lay 
down  a  bit,  till  I  have  a  look.  Where's  the  Docther, 
boys? — Get  him  quick." 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Sim  Gage.  "Lemme  up. 
I  fell  down — Who  hit  me?" 

He  felt  something  at  his  chest,  raised  a  hand,  and 
in  turn  passed  it  before  his  face  in  wonderment. 

"Well,  look  at  that !"  said  he.  "Did  that  feller  shoot 
me?  Say,  did  I  get  him?" 

"Sure,  boy!"  said  Flaherty.  "You  got  him.  And 
so  did  a  dozen  more  of  the  fellies.  He's  deader'n  hell 
this  minute,  so  don't  you  worry  none  over  that.  Don't 
worry  over  nothing,"  he  added  gently,  folding  his  coat 
to  put  under  Sim's  head.  He  had  seen  gun  shot 
wounds  before  in  his  life  on  the  rough  jobs,  and  he 
knew. 

"Get  a  board,  or  something,  boys,"  he  said.  So 
presently  they  brought  a  plank,  and  eased  Sim  Gage 
gently  to  it,  men  at  each  end  lifting  him,  others  steady 
ing  him  as  he  was  carried.  They  took  him  into  the 
house  which  Waldhorn  had  just  now  left. 

It  was  the  turn  of  dawn  now.  The  soft  light  of 
day  was  filtering  through  the  air  from  somewhere  up 
above,  somewhere  beyond  the  edge  of  the  canyon. 

"Better  tell  those  women  to  stay  away,"  said  Fla 
herty  to  the  young  lieutenant.  The  latter  met  Annie 

287 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

Squires  at  the  door  of  her  house,  ejaculating,  demand 
ing,  questioning,  weeping,  all  at  once.  It  was  with 
difficulty  that  she  was  induced  to  obey  the  general 
orders  of  getting  inside  and  keeping  quiet. 

Other  men  came  now,  telling  of  the  discovery  of 
the  dead  Chinaman  near  the  lighting  station.  The  bits 
of  information  were  pieced  together  hurriedly,  this 
and  that  to  the  other. 

Doctor  Barnes  had  seen  the  light's  play  on  the  sky, 
had  heard  echoes  in  the  mountains.  He  now  reached 
the  scene,  coming  at  top  speed  up  the  canyon  trail  in 
his  car.  He  met  answers  already  formed  for  his 
questions. 

"They  got  Sim,"  said  Wid  Gardner.  "Wald- 
horn " 

He  hurried  into  the  room  where  they  had  carried 
the  wounded  man.  "Why,  of  course,"  said  Sim  Gage 
dully,  "I'll  be  all  right.  After  breakfast  I'll  be  out 
again  all  right.  IVe  got  to  go  over  and  see — I've  got 

to  go  over  to  her  house  and  see "  But  he  never 

told  what  he  planned. 

Doctor  Barnes  shook  his  head  to  Flaherty  after  a 
time,  when  the  latter  turned  to  him  in  the  outer  room. 
The  big  foreman  compressed  his  lips. 

"He's  done  good  work,  the  lad!"  said  Flaherty;  and 
Wid  Gardner,  still  standing  by,  nodded  his  head. 

"Mighty  good.  It  was  him  got  the  Chink  all  right 
— hit  him  twict  out  of  three,  and  creased  him  onct; 
and  like  enough  this  Dutchman  first,  too.  Tell  me, 

288 


GET    A    BOARD,    OR    SOMETHING,    ROYS 


THE  ENEMY 

Doc,  ain't  he  got  a  chanct  to  come  through?     Can't 
you  make  it  out  that  way  for  pore  old  Sim  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Doctor  Barnes.  "The  shot's 
close  to  an  artery,  and  like  enough  he's  bleeding  inter 
nally,  because  he's  coughing.  His  pulse  is  jumpy.  It's 
too  bad — too  damn  bad.  He  was — a  good  man,  Sim 
Gage!" 

'What  was  it,  Annie?"  asked  Mary  Gage,  over  in 
their  house.  "There  was  shooting.  Was  anybody 
hurt?" 

"Some  of  the  hands  got  to  mixing  it,  like  enough," 
said  Annie,  herself  pale  and  shaking.  "I  don't  know." 

"Was  anybody  hurt?" 

"I  haven't  had  time  to  find  out.  Oh,  my  God !  Sis, 
I  wish't  we'd  never  come  out  here  to  this  country  at 
all.  I  want  my  mother,  that's  what  I  want !  I'm  sick 
with  all  this."  She  began  to  cry,  sobbing  openly. 
Mary  Gage,  now  the  stronger,  drew  the  girl's  head 
down  into  her  own  arms. 

"You  mustn't  cry,"  said  she.  "Annie,  we've  got 
to  pull  together." 

"I  guess  so,"  said  Annie,  sobbing,  "both  of  us.  But 
I'm  so  lonesome — t'm  so  awful  scared." 

The  morning  came  slowly,  at  length  fully,  cool  and 
softly  luminous.  The  friends  of  Sim  Gage,  all  men, 
stood  near  his  bedside.  His  eyes  opened  sometimes, 
looking  with  curious  languor  around  him,  as  though 
some  problem  were  troubling  him.  At  length  he 
turned  toward  Wid,  who  stood  close  to  him. 

"Hit!"  said  he.— "I  know,  now." 
289 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

No  one  said  anything  to  this.  After  a  time  he 
reached  out  a  hand  and  touched  almost  timidly  the 
arm  of  his  friend.  His  voice  was  laboring  and  not 
strong. 

"Where's — where's  my  hat?"  he  whispered  at 
length. 

"Your  hat  ?"  said  Wid.  "Your  hat  ?— Now,  why- 
I  reckon  it's  hanging  around  somewheres  here.  What 
makes  you  want  it?" 

But  some  one  had  heard  the  request  and  came  in 
through  the  little  hallway  with  Sim  Gage's  hat,  its 
brave  green  cord  and  all. 

The  wounded  man  looked  at  it  and  smiled,  as  sweet 
a  smile  as  may  come  to  a  man's  face — the  smile  of 
a  boy.  Indeed,  he  had  lived  a  life  that  had  left  him 
scarce  more  than  a  boy,  all  these  years  alone  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  world. 

He  motioned  to  them  to  put  the  hat  on  the  bed  be 
side  him.  "I  want  it  here,"  he  said  after  a  time,  mov 
ing  restlessly  when  they  undertook  to  take  it  from 
him. 

He  touched  it  with  his  hand.  At  length  he  reached 
out  and  dropped  it  on  the  chair  at  the  head  of  his 
bed,  now  and  again  turning  and  looking  at  it  the  best 
he  might,  laboring  as  he  did  with  his  torn  lungs; 
looking  at  it  with  some  strange  sort  of  reverence  in 
his  gaze,  some  tremendous  significance. 

"Ain't  she  fine?"  he  asked  of  his  friend,  again 
with  his  astonishingly  winsome  smile;  a  smile  they 
found  hard  to  look  upon. 

290 


THE  ENEMY 

A  half  hour  later  some  man  down  the  road  said  to 
another  that  the  sagebrusher  had  croaked  too. 

That  is  to  say,  Sim  Gage,  gentleman,  soldier  and 
patriot,  had  passed  on  to  the  place  where  men  find 
reward  for  doing  the  very  best  they  know  with  what 
God  has  seen  fit  to  give  them  as  their  own. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  DAM 

DOCTOR  ALLEN  BARNES  turned  slowly  to- 
ward  the  house  where  the  wife  of  Sim  Gage 
still  lay.     His  heart  was  heavy  with  the  hard 
est  duty  he  had  ever  known  in  all  his  life. 

But  as  he  reached  a  point  half  way  between  the  two 
houses  he  suddenly  stopped.  At  that  moment  every 
man  on  the  little  street  stopped  also. 

The  routine  of  the  patrol  had  been  relaxed  in  the 
excitement  of  these  late  events.  Indeed,  it  seemed 
tacitly  agreed  that  the  climax  had  come,  so  that  there 
was  no  need  now  for  further  guardianship  of  the 
property.  It  was  not  so. 

The  sound  was  a  short,  heavy  moan,  as  nearly  as 
it  may  be  described,  and  not  a  sharp  rending  note;  a 
vast,  deep  groan,  somewhere  deep  in  the  earth,  as 
though  a  volcano  were  about  to  erupt.  It  was  not 
over  in  an  instant,  but  went  on,  like  the  suppressed 
lamentations  of  some  creature  trying  to  break  its 
chains.  It  might  have  been  some  prehistoric,  tre 
mendous  creature,  unknown  to  man,  unknown  to  these 
times.  But  it  was  our  creature.  It  was  of  our  day. 
Else  it  could  never  have  been. 

292 


THE  DAM 

Then  the  ground  under  the  feet  of  every  man  on 
the  little  street  lifted,  gently,  slowly,  and  sank  down 
again.  As  it  did  so  a  tremendous  reverberation  gath 
ered  and  broke  out,  ran  up  and  down  the  canyon,  up 
the  opposite  cliff  face,  echoing  and  rising  as  dense  and 
thick  as  smoke  does.  The  rack-rock  charge,  of  no  one 
may  know  how  many  hundreds  of  pounds,  had  done 
its  work. 

And  then  all  earth  went  back  to  chaos.  A  new 
world  was  in  the  making.  There  arose  in  that  nar 
row,  iron-sided  gorge  a  havoc  such  as  belike  sur 
passed  that  of  the  original  breaking  through  of  the 
waters.  That  first  slow  work  of  nature  might  have 
been  done  drop  by  drop,  a  little  at  a  time.  But  now 
all  the  outraged  river  was  venting  itself  in  one  epochal 
instant.  Its  accumulated  power  was  rushing  through 
the  wall  that  held  it  back  from  the  seas — the  vast 
vengeance  of  the  waters,  which  they  had  sought  cov 
ertly  all  this  time,  now  was  theirs. 

An  uncontrollable  and  immeasurable  force  was  set 
loose.  No  man  may  measure  the  actual  horse  power 
that  lay  above  the  great  dam  of  the  Two  Forks — it 
never  was  a  comprehensible  thing.  A  hundred  Johns 
town  reservoirs  lay  penned  there.  That  there  was  so 
little  actual  loss  of  life  was  due  to  the  fact  that  there 
were  few  settlements  in  the  sixty  miles  below  the 
mouth  of  the  great  canyon  itself.  A  few  scattered 
dry  farms,  edging  up  close  to  the  river  in  the  valley 
far  below,  were  caught  and  buried.  Hours  later,  un 
der  the  advancing  flood,  all  the  live  stock  of  the  valley 

293 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

was  swept  away,  all  the  houses  and  all  the  fences  and 
roads  and  bridges  were  wiped  out  as  though  they  had 
never  been.  But  this  was  fifty,  sixty,  seventy  miles 
away,  and  much  later  in  the  morning.  Those  below 
could  only  guess  what  had  happened  far  up  in  the 
great  Two  Forks  canyon.  The  big  dam  was  broken! 

The  face  of  the  giant  dam,  more  solidly  coherent 
than  granite  itself,  slowly,  grandiose  even  in  its  ruin, 
passed  out  and  down  in  a  hundred  foot  crevasse  where 
the  spill  gates  were  widened  by  the  high  explosive. 
A  vast  land  slip,  jarred  from  the  cut-face  mountain 
side  above,  thundered  down  and  aided  in  the  crumbling 
of  the  dam.  A  disintegrated  mass  of  powdered  con 
crete  fell  out,  was  blown  apart.  The  face  of  the  dam 
on  that  part  slowly  settled  down  into  a  vast  U.  Then 
the  waters  came  through,  leaping — a  solid  face  of 
water  such  as  no  man  may  comprehend. 

An  instant,  and  the  canyon  below  the  dam  was  fifty 
feet  deep  with  a  substance  which  seemed  not  water, 
but  a  mass  of  shrieking  and  screaming  demons  set 
loose  under  the  name  of  no  known  element.  There 
came  a  vast  roar,  but  with  it  a  number  of  smaller 
sounds,  as  of  voices  deep  down  under  the  floos,  glass 
splintering,  rocks  rumbling.  The  gorge  seemed  in 
habited  by  furies.  And  back  of  this  came  the  pres 
sure  of  twenty  miles  of  water,  a  hundred  feet  deep, 
which  would  come  through.  The  river  had  its  way 
again,  raving  and  roaring  in  an  anvil  chorus  of  its 
own,  knocking  the  great  bowlders  together,  shrieking 
its  glee.  The  Two  Forks  river  came  through  the  Two 

294 


THE  DAM 

Forks  canyon  once  more!  Against  it  there  stood 
only  the  fragmental  ruin  of  the  great,  gray  face,  but 
tressed  with  concrete  more  coherent  than  granite  it 
self,  but  all  useless  here. 

The  tide  rose  very  rapidly.  The  canyon  was  too 
crooked  to  carry  off  the  flood.  The  lower  part  of  the 
town,  where  the  street  grade  sank  rapidly,  went  un 
der  water  almost  at  once.  Horses,  cows,  sheep,  chick 
ens,  the  odds  and  ends  of  such  an  encampment,  gath 
ered  by  vagrant  laborers,  were  swept  down  before 
opportunity  could  be  found  to  save  them.  Men  and 
the  few  women  in  that  part  of  town,  employees  of 
the  cook  camp,  abandoned  their  possessions  and  ran 
straight  up  the  mountain  side,  seeking  only  to  get 
above  the  tide.  Their  houses  were  swept  away  like 
cheese  boxes.  Logs  were  crushed  together  like  straws. 
The  sound  of  it  all  made  human  speech  inaudible  any 
where  close  to  the  water's  edge. 

The  east  half  of  the  dam,  that  closer  to  the  camp, 
still  held.  The  buildings  here  were  still  under  the 
dam — a  mass  of  water  fifty  feet  in  height  rose  above 
them,  would  come  through  if  that  portion  of  the  dam 
broke.  But  at  the  time  only  the  suction  of  the  far 
ther  U,  where  the  break  was  made,  caused  a  gentle 
current  to  1>e  visible  at  this  side  of  the  backwater. 
If  the  dam  held,  it  would  be  quite  a  time  before  the 
level  of  the  lake  above  would  be  appreciably  altered. 
Slowly,  inch  by  inch,  each  inch  representing  none 
might  say  how  much  in  power  of  ruin,  it  would  sink, 
and  in  time  reveal  the  ancient  bed  of  the  river.  If 

295 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

the  remnant  of  the  dam  held,  that  would  be  true. 
Happy  the  human  race  aspiring  to  erect  such  a  bar 
rier,  that  so  few  suffered  in  this  rebirth  of  the  wilder 
ness.  Had  the  settlements  been  thick  below,  all  must 
have  perished.  The  telephone  was  out,  there  was 
no  way  for  a  messenger  to  get  out  ahead  of  the  flood. 
Only  the  quick  widening  of  the  valley,  below  the  can 
yon's  lower  end,  eased  down  the  volume  of  the  flood 
so  that  it  was  less  destructive.  There  was  no  settle 
ment  at  all  in  the  canyon  proper. 

After  the  first  pause  of  horror  men  here  at  the 
broken  dam  began  to  bestir  themselves.  Discipline 
was  a  thing  forgotten,  and  sauve  qui  pent  was  the  law. 
It  was  some  time  before  Doctor  Barnes  pulled  him 
self  together  and  began  to  try  to  get  his  men  in  hand. 
He  ordered  them  to  the  lower  end  of  the  street,  to 
drive  the  people  out  of  their  houses  without  an  in 
stant's  delay;  for  none  might  say  at  what  time  the 
break  in  the  dam  would  increase,  in  which  case  it 
soon  would  be  too  late  for  any  hope.  He  himself  has 
tened  at  last  to  the  house  where  the  two  women  were,. 
Wid  Gardner  with  him,  after  he  had  issued  general 
orders  for  all  the  men  to  get  up  the  trail  above  the 
dam  as  soon  as  possible. 

"Come  out !"  he  cried  as  he  opened  the  door.  Mary 
Gage  and  Annie  came  arm  in  arm,  both  of  them  hys 
terical  now. 

"It's  all  gone,"  said  Doctor  Barnes,  not  even  bit 
terly,  but  calmly  after  all.  "It's  out.  The  dam's 
gone." 

296 


THE  DAM 

"Gone?  What  does  it  mean?  Where  shall  we  go? 
Is  there  danger?"  These  questions  came  all  at  once 
from  the  two  women.  The  roar  of  the  waters 
drowned  their  voices. 

"Come  quick!  Get  into  my  car.  It's  only  a  step 
up  the  grade — we'll  be  safe  on  the  upper  level." 

They  came,  Mary  Gage  still  with  her  bandages  in 
place,  stumbling,  terrified,  but  leading  the  little  dog, 
Tim,  who  cringed  down  in  curious  terror  of  his  own. 
Doctor  Barnes  hurried  them,  guided  them,  and  the 
little  car  quickly  carried  them  up  the  incline  above 
the  top  of  the  dam. 

They  paused  here  at  the  first  sharp  curve  under  the 
lee  of  the  cut  bank,  where  they  might  take  breath 
and  look  down.  There  came  up  and  grouped  them 
selves  near  them  and  beyond  them  now  several  of  the 
people  of  the  camp,  and  practically  all  of  the  soldiers 
from  the  barracks,  who  fell  into  a  stiff,  silent  line, 
looking  down.  It  was  a  scene  singular  enough  which 
lay  before  them,  this  wild  remaking  of  the  wilder 
ness. 

There  came  another  cosmic  cry  from  the  chaos  be 
low  them,  more  terrifying  than  anything  yet  had  been. 
Two  Forks  was  throwing  in  the  reserves.  The  enemy 
was  breaking !  Doctor  Barnes  knew  what  this  meant. 
The  break  was  widening.  He  stood  looking  down. 
And  then  he  heard  a  human  voice  cry  out,  a  voice  he 
knew. 

He  turned — and  saw  Mary  Gage  fall  as  though  in 
297 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

a  faint  upon  the  ground.  Her  eye-bandages  were  off, 
her  eyes  wholly  uncovered  to  the  light. 

"Well,  it's  over  now,"  said  he  quietly  to  Annie 
Squires.  "One  way  or  the  other,  it's  done." 

He  lifted  her  gently,  attended  her  until  at  length 
she  moved,  stood — until  at  length  he  knew  that  she 
saw! 

She  turned  her  face  back  from  the  ruin  which  had 
been  her  first  vision  of  her  new  world,  and  looked 
into  the  eyes  of  the  man  who  had  given  back  to  her 
eyes  with  which  to  see.  And  he  looked  deep,  deep, 
into  her  own,  grave  and  unsmiling. 

She  spoke  to  him  at  last.  "I  can  see,"  said  she 
simply. 

"I'm  very  glad,"  said  he,  trying  to  be  as  simple. 

But  he  turned  her  away,  giving  her  into  Annie's 
arms. 

"Look !"  cried  other  voices. 

A  section  of  the  side  of  the  great  U,  running  clear 
back  to  a  seam  which  had  formed  in  the  dam  face, 
slowly  broke  out  and  went  down.  The  water  rose 
like  a  tide  now,  very  rapidly,  because  the  canyon  it 
self,  so  narrow  and  so  full  of  abrupt  Curves,  made  no 
adequate  outlet  for  this  augmented  flood.  The  entire 
lower  part  of  the  camp  was  covered,  and  the  flood, 
eddying  back  from  the  mountain  wall,  came  creeping 
up  toward  the  top  of  the  grade,  covering  now  this  and 
now  that  portion  of  the  settlement.  One  house  after 
another  was  swept  away  before  their  eyes. 

Doctor  Barnes  stood  looking  out  over  it  all  mood- 
298 


THE  DAM 

ity.  He  did  not  go  back  to  Mary  Gage.  Back  beyond 
a  few  of  the  soldiers  were  chattering  idly,  but  no  one 
paid  attention  to  them,  for  not  even  they  themselves 
knew  that  they  were  talking.  But  at  length  a  voice, 
clear  and  distinct,  did  come  to  Doctor  Barnes'  ears. 

"Where  is  my  husband !"  cried  Mary  Gage,  break 
ing  away  from  Annie.  "Which  is  he  ?" 

He  turned  to  her  silently.     He  shook  his  head. 

"I  want  to  see  him!  I've  got  to  see  him.  Who's 
that  man?"  She  pointed. 

"That's  Wid  Gardner,"  said  Doctor  Barnes,  slowly 
and  gently  as  he  could. 

"Those  men  yonder — those  soldiers — is  one  of  them 
my  husband?  You  said  he  was  a  soldier." 

"Yes,"  said  Doctor  Barnes,  "he  was  a  soldier." 

Then  she  guessed  at  last. 

"He  was  a  soldier?  Where  is  he  noiv?"  She 
turned  upon  him,  laying  her  hands  upon  his  arms. 
"Where  is  he  now?"  she  demanded. 

But  Doctor  Barnes  was  looking  at  the  foam-flecked 
surface  of  the  water,  eddying  against  the  mountain 
side,  crawling  up  and  up.  The  little  log  house  where 
Sim  Gage's  soul  had  passed  was  no  more  to  be  seen. 
It  had  gone.  The  house  where  the  women  had 
stopped  was  swept  down  but  a  short  time  later.  Doc 
tor  Barnes  could  not  speak  the  cruel  truth. 

"Annie!"  called  out  Mary  Gage,  sobbing  openly, 
imploringly.  "Tell  me,  won't  I  ever  see  him?  You 
said  he  was  a  good  soldier." 

"One  of  the  best,"  said  Doctor  Barnes  at  last.   "Lis- 

2QO 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

ten  to  me,  please.  Your  husband  died  believing  he 
had  saved  the  dam.  And  so  he  had,  so  far  as  his 
work  was  concerned.  It  was  he  who  discovered  their 
work  last  night.  He  took  care  of  two  of  them — it 
makes  three  for  him.  It  was  he  that  killed  Big  Aleck, 
up  on  the  reserve,  and  avenged  you,  and  never  told 
you.  He  was  shot — you  heard  the  firing.  He  died 
before  we  came  up  here.  I  couldn't  bring  his  body 
till  you  were  cared  for.  Now  it's  too  late.  He's 
gone.  Well,  it's  as  good  a  way  for  a  good  man  to 

go." 

"Blow  'Taps/  "  he  ordered  of  the  bugler  near  by. 
It  was  done.  And  then,  at  his  order,  the  rifles  spoke 
in  unison  over  a  soldier's  grave. 

"But  I've  never  seen  him!"  she  said  to  him  pite- 
ously,  after  the  echoes  of  the  salutes  had  passed.  It 
was  as  though  she  was  unable  to  comprehend. 

"No,"  said  Allen  Barnes.  "But  keep  this  picture 
of  him — think  that  he  died  like  a  gentleman  and  a 
soldier.  A  good  man,  Sim  Gage." 

He  turned  away  and  walked  down  the  grade  apart 
from  them,  hardly  seeing  what  lay  before  him,  hardly 
hearing  the  rush  of  the  waters  down  the  canyon. 

When  men  began  to  question  as  to  the  cause  of  the 
disaster,  it  became  plain  that  some  man,  whose  name 
no  one  will  ever  know,  must  have  crept  along  the 
side  of  the  river  bank  below  the  road  grade,  and  have 
fired  the  fuse  of  a  heavy  charge  of  rack-rock,  which, 
none  might  know  how  long,  had  been  hid  between  the 
buttresses  and  back  of  the  apron  of  the  dam. 

300 


Doctor  Barnes  reasoned  now  that  that  man  in  all 
likelihood  had  come  from  below.  If  so,  in  all  likeli 
hood  he  was  one  of  the  Dorenwald  party.  His  face 
lighted  grimly.  There  were  but  few  places  where 
they  could  have  found  a  place  in  the  canyon  for  an 
encampment.  If  they  had  found  one  of  these  places 
— where  were  they  now?  Their  fate  could  now  be 
read  in  this  flood  forcing  its  way  down  through  the 
crooked  gorge  of  the  mountain  range.  The  flag  staff 
had  not  been  swept  down — the  flag  still  fluttered  now, 
triumphant  over  the  attempted  ruin — the  answer  of 
America  to  Anarchy !  And  the  flag  had  been  avenged. 
Dorenwald  and  his  "free  brothers,"  leaders  of  the 
"world's  revolt,"  would  revolt  no  more.  The  sponge 
of  the  slate  had  wiped  off  their  little  marks.  No  one 
would  ever  trace  them.  They  would  find  no  confes 
sional  and  no  shriving,  for  their  way  back  to  that 
underworld  of  devil-fed  minds,  out  of  which  they 
had  emerged  to  do  ruin  in  a  country  which  had  never 
harmed  them,  but  which  on  the  contrary  had  wel 
comed  them  and  fed  them  in  their  want. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

AFTER  THE  DELUGE 

IN  one  elemental  instant  there  was  loosed  in  the 
soul  of  Mary  Gage  a  pent  flood  of  emotion.  She 
let  her  heart  go,  let  in  the  wilderness  of  primi 
tive  things  again.  She  was  alive!  She  could  see! 
She  could  be  as  other  women ! 

The  flood  of  relief,  of  joy,  of  yearning,  was  a  thing 
cosmic,  so  strong  that  regret  and  grief  were  for  the 
time  swept  on  and  buried  in  the  welter  of  emotions 
running  free. 

It  was  as  though  she  had  stepped  absolutely  from 
one  world  into  another.  Suddenly,  the  people  of  her 
old  world  were  gone.  There  had  been  a  shadow,  a 
strange,  magnified  shadow  of  a  soul,  this  man  who 
had  been  called  her  husband.  But  now  with  aston 
ishing  swiftness  and  clarity  of  vision  she  knew  that 
he  never  had  been  a  husband  to  her.  What  another 
had  told  her  was  the  truth.  He  never  had  allowed 
her  to  touch  his  hand,  his  face,  he  never  had  laid  a 
hand  on  hers,  never  had  called  her  by  any  name  of 
love,  never  had  kissed  her  or  sought  to  do  so.  And 
fie  was  gone  now,  so  absolutely  that  not  even  the 
image  of  him  could  remain  had  she  ever  owned  an 

302 


AFTER  THE  DELUGE 

image  of  him.     She  never  had  known  him,  and  now 
never  could. 

Alas!  Sim  Gage,  shall  we  say?  By  no  means. 
Happy  Sim  Gage!  For  he  passed  at  the  climax  of  his 
life  and  took  with  him  forever  all  he  ever  could  have 
gained  of  delight  and  comfort.  Happy  Sim  Gage! 
to  have  a  woman  like  Mary,  his  wife,  stand  and 
weep  for  him  now.  He  had  lost  her  had  she  ever 
seen  his  face,  and  now,  at  least,  he  owned  her  tears. 
A  vast  and  noble  flood  carried  happy  Sim  Gage  out 
to  the  ocean  at  the  end  of  all,  to  the  rest  and  the 
absorption  and  the  peace. 

Mary  Gage  pushed  back  the  bandage  from  her  eyes 
furtively,  unable  to  obey  longer  any  command  which 
cut  her  off  from  this  new  world  to  which  she  had 
come.  Before  she  dropped  the  bandage  once  more 
she  had  caught  sight  of  a  figure  not  looking  toward 
her  at  the  moment. 

Allen  Barnes  was  standing  with  his  head  up,  his 
eyes  looking  out  over  the  abysmal  scene  below.  Be 
hind  his  back  he  had  gripped  tight  together  his  long 
and  sinewy  hands.  He  was  a  lean  and  broad  man, 
so  she  thought.  He  stood  in  the  uniform  of  his  coun 
try,  made  for  manly  men,  and  beseeming  only  such. 
The  neatness  of  good  rearing  even  now  was  apparent 
in  every  line  of  him.  Dust  seemed  not  to  have 
touched  him.  He  was  clean  and  trim  and  fine,  a  pic 
ture  of  an  officer  and  a  gentleman. 

Light,  and  the  new  music  of  the  spheres — to  whom 
3°3 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

did  she  owe  those  things?  It  was  to  this  man  stand 
ing  yonder. 

"McQueston,"  she  heard  a  sharp  voice  command, 
"take  your  men  and  go  down  to  the  lower  dam — 
any  way  you  can  get  across  the  mountains.  Bring 
your  report  up  by  one  of  these  cars  when  you  get 
back  here.  I'll  go  up  above  to  the  upper  station  with 
these  people.  It's  going  to  rain.  That  will  end  the 
fire." 

He  saluted  sharply  in  return,  and  turned  again  to 
those  under  his  personal  charge. 

"Get  into  the  car,"  he  said.  Mary  Gage  felt  his 
hand  steadying  her  arm.  He  took  his  place  at  the 
steering  wheel,  Wid  Gardner  alongside,  Annie  and 
herself  being  left  to  the  rear  seat  of  the  tonneau. 
It  was  reckless  driving  that  Doctor  Allen  Barnes  did 
once  more.  They  out-ran  the  approaching  valley 
storm,  and  so  presently  came  into  the  gate  of  that 
place  where  once  had  lived  Sim  Gage.  They  dis 
mounted  from  the  car  and  stood,  a  forlorn  group, 
looking  at  the  scene  before  them  as  funeral  mourners 
returning,  not  liking  the  thought  of  going  into  a  de 
serted  home  from  which  a  man  is  gone  never  to  re 
turn. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

ANNIE  ANSWERS 

ALL  at  once  Annie  Squires,  usually  stolid,  now 
overstrained,  gave  way  to  a  wild  sobbing.    "I 
can't  go  in  there,"  said  she.     "I'm  scared.     I 
want  to  go  home!     I  want  my  mother,  that's  what 
I  want." 

"Where  is  your  mother?"  asked  Wid  Gardner.  He 
had  come  over  near  to  her  when  Doctor  Barnes  was 
helping  Mary  into  the  house. 

"Dead — dead  long  ago,"  wept  Annie.  "When  I 
was  a  little  girl.  Like  her,  Mary,  there — we  didn't 
neither  of  us  ever  have  a  mother.  We  done  just  the 
best  we  could,  both  of  us.  We've  tried  and  tried  to 
find  some  sort  of  place  where  we  belonged,  and  we 
couldn't.  We  haven't  got  any  place  to  go  to.  I 
haven't  got  a  place  on  earth  to  call  my  home. 

"And  it's  something  a  woman  wants  sometimes," 
she  added  after  a  while,  dabbing  her  wet  handker 
chief  against  her  eyes.  "That's  the  Gawd's  truth." 

Wid  approached  more  closely  the  weeping  girl, 
touching  her  arm  with  a  brown  hand  now  gentle  as 
a  child's. 

"Now  look-a-here,"  said  he.    "I  can't  stand  to  hear 

305 


THE  SAGEBHUSHER 

you  go  on  that  way.  Do  you  reckon  you  was  ever 
any  lonesomer  fer  a  home  than  what  I  am,  living  out 
here  all  my  life?" 

"And  now  I'm  worse  off  than  I  ever  was  before," 
he  went  on  frowningly.  "I  didn't  know  nothing  be 
fore  you  come  out  here.  But  now  I  do.  I  can't  think 
of  your  going  back,  Annie." 

She  did  not  answer  him,  but  went  on  weeping. 

"What's  more,  I  ain't  ongoing  to  stand  it,"  he  added 
savagely.  "I  ain't  a-going  to  let  you  go  back  a-tall. 
Talk  about  home! — there's  a  home  right  acrosst  the 
fence.  We  can  make  it  any  way  we  like.  It'll  do  to 
start  with,  anyhow.  Here's  where  you  belong — you 
don't  belong  back  there  in  them  dirty  cities.  You 
belong  right  out  here — with  me." 

"I  couldn't — I  can't,"  said  Annie.  "I  couldn't  let 
her  go  back  alone.  I  got  to  take  care  of  that  kid." 

"She  ain't  blind  no  more,"  said  Wid.  "But  she 
don't  have  to  go  back!  This  here  place  where  we 
stand  is  hers,  ain't  it?  What  more  does  she  want? 
And  we'd  be  right  here,  too,  all  the  time,  to  help 
her  and  watch  her,  wouldn't  we,  now?" 

"You  don't  know  her,"  said  Annie  Squires.    "I  do." 

"But,  Annie,"  he  went  on,  "you'd  ought  to  see  this 
out  here  in  the  valley  when  the  spring  comes!  It's 
green,  all  green!  The  sage  has  got  five  different  col 
ors  of  green  in  it — you  wouldn't  think  that,  would 
you  ?  And  some  blue.  And  you  ain't  seen  the  moun 
tains  yet  when  they're  white  with  snow  on  them — 
that's  something  you  got  to  see  fer  to  know  what  a 

306 


ANNIE  ANSWERS 

mountain  is.  And  look  at  that  little  creek — it's  plumb 
gentle  up  here,  ain't  it  ?  It's  pretty,  here.  You  ought 
to  see  the  moonlight  on  the  meadows  when  the  moon 
is  full, — I  was  telling  you  about  that,  Annie." 

"I  ain't  never  been  married  in  my  life,"  he  went 
on,  arguing  now.  "I  ain't  never  seen  a  woman  that 
I  loved  or  looked  at  twicet  but  you.  I  was  too  damn 
lazy  to  care  anyway  about  anything  till  I  seen  you. 
I  just  been  drifting  and  fooling  along.  But  now  I 
ain't.  I  want  to  go  to  work.  I  want  to  be  some 
body.  Why,  Annie,  I  reckon  all  the  time  I  was  home 
sick,  and  didn't  know  it.  But  I  tell  you  it  wouldn't 
be  no  home  unless  you  was  in  it  with  me.  I  ain't 
fit  to  ask  you  to  run  it  f er  me.  But  I  do !" 

It  was  the  ancient  story,  even  told  direct  in  the 
open,  unwhispered,  even  told  now,  at  such  an  hour 
and  place.  She  did  not  answer  at  all,  but  her  sobbing 
had  ceased.  He  stood  still  frowning,  looking  at  her, 
his  hat  pushed  back  from  his  forehead. 

"I  can't  say  no  more'n  I  have,"  he  concluded. 
"Years  and  years,  Annie.  Wouldn't  it  settle  a  heap 
of  things?" 

"I  got  to  have  some  sort  of  time  to  think  things 
over,  haven't  I,  then?"  She  spoke  with  apparent 
venom,  as  though  this  were  an  affront  that  had  been 
offered  her. 

"All  you  want,"  said  Wid  Gardner  gently.  "I've 
done  my  own  thinking.  I  know." 

"I've  got  to  go  in  and  get  them  folks  something 
to  eat,  haven't  I?"  said  Annie,  using  her  apron  on 

3°7 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

her  eyes.    "It's  going  to  be  about  the  last  time  all  of 
us'll  ever  eat  together  any  more." 

"Well,  we  can  invite  them  over,  sometimes,  can't 
we,  Annie?"  said  Wid  Gardner  calmly.  And  he  kissed 
her  brazenly  and  in  the  open. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
MRS.  DAVIDSON'S  CONSCIENCE 

IT  was  fall,  and  the  flame  of  the  frost  had  fallen 
on  the  aspen  and  the  cottonwoods,  and  shorn  the 
willows  of  most  of  their  leaves.  A  hundred  thou 
sand  wild  fowl  honked  their  way  across  the  meadows 
toward  the  black  flats  where  once  had  been  a  lake,  and 
where  now  was  immeasurable  food  for  them.  Up  in 
the  mountains  the  elk  were  braying.  The  voice  of 
the  coyotes  at  the  pink  of  dawn  seemed  shriller  now, 
as  speaking  of  the  coming  days  of  want  But  the 
sun  still  was  kind,  the  midday  hour  still  was  one  of 
warmth.  A  strange,  keen  value,  immeasurably  ex 
alting,  was  in  the  air.  All  nature  was  afoot,  ques 
tioning  of  what  was  to  come. 

Mary  Gage  came  in  from  the  stream  side  that  after 
noon,  the  strap  of  her  trout  creel  cutting  deep  into 
the  shoulder  of  her  sweater.  She  placed  the  basket 
clown  under  the  shadow  of  the  willow  trees,  and  hung 
up  a  certain  rod  on  certain  nails  under  the  eaves  of 
the  cabin.  Her  little  dog,  Tim,  soberly  marched  in 
front  of  her,  still  guiding  her,  as  he  supposed;  but 
she  no  longer  had  a  cord  upon  his  neck,  a  staff  in  her 
hand.  A  hundred  chickens,  well  grown  now,  followed 

309 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

her  about,  vocal  of  their  desire  for  attention.  She 
turned  to  them,  taking  down  the  little  sack  which  con 
tained  the  leavings  of  the  wheat  that  had  been  threshed 
not  so  long  ago  here. 

"Chick,  chick,  chick!"  she  called  gently — "c/wV&ee, 
chickee\"  So  she  stood,  Lady  Bountiful  for  them  as 
they  swarmed  about  her  feet  in  the  dooryard. 

She  heard  the  clang  of  the  new  gate,  and  turned, 
her  hand  shading  her  eyes  to  see  who  was  coming. 

As  she  stood  she  made  a  splendid  picture  of  young 
womanhood,  ruddy  and  brown,  dear  of  skin  and  eye, 
very  fair  indeed  to  look  upon.  The  droop  of  the  cor 
ners  of  her  mouth  was  gone.  Her  gaze  was  direct  and 
free.  She  walked  easily,  strong  and  straight  and 
deep  of  bosom,  erect  of  head,  flat  of  back,  as  fit  for 
love  as  any  woman  of  ancient  Greece.  Such  had 
been  the  ministrations  of  the  sagebrush  land  for  Mary 
Gage,  that  once  was  the  weakling,  Mary  Warren. 

She  saw  two  figures  coming  slowly  along  the  well- 
worn  track  from  the  gate.  She  could  not  hear  the 
comment  the  one  made  to  the  other  as  they  both  ad 
vanced  slowly,  leaning  together  as  gossiping  women 
will,  like  two  tired  oxen  returning  from  the  field. 

"Is  that  her?"  asked  one  of  the  newcomers,  a  pon 
derous  sort  of  woman,  whose  feet  turned  out  alarm 
ingly  as  she  walked. 

"Sure  it's  her,"  said  Karen  Jensen.  "Who's  it 
going  to  be  if  it  ain't  her?  Ain't  she  nice-looking, 
sort  of,  after  all?  And  to  think  she  can  see  now  as 
good  as  anybody !  Yes,  that's  her. 

310 


MRS.  DAVIDSON'S  CONSCIENCE 

"How  do  you  do,  Mis'  Gage?" 

She  spoke  now  aloud  as  Mary  came  toward  them 
smiling.  The  dimples  in  her  cheek,  resurrected  of 
late,  gave  a  girlishness  and  tenderness  to  her  face  that 
it  once  had  lacked  in  her  illness. 

"I'm  well,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Jensen.  It's  a  glorious 
day,  isn't  it  ?  I've  got  some  fish  for  you.  I  was  going 
to  tell  Minna  to  take  them  down  to  you  when  she  went 
home.  She's  a  dear,  your  Minna." 

"Well,  it's  right  fine  you  should  catch  fish  for  us 
now,"  said  Mrs.  Jensen.  "I'll  be  obliged  for  some — 
my  man  don't  seern  to  get  time  to  go  fishing." 

"Make  you  acquainted  with  Mis'  Davidson,  Mis' 
Gage,"  she  continued.  "This  is  the  school  teacher. 
She  comes  every  fall  to  teach  up  above,  when  she's 
done  living  on  her  Idaho  homestead,  summers." 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss — Mrs.  Davidson,"  began 
Mary,  offering  her  hand.  "If  you  know  Mrs.  Jensen 
I  ought  to  know  you — she's  been  very  good  to  me. 
Come  in,  won't  you  ?  Sit  down  on  the  gallery." 

"Yes,  this  new  porch  is  about  as  good  as  any 
wheres  right  now,"  commented  Mrs.  Jensen.  "It's 
a  little  hot,  ain't  it?"  They  found  seats  of  boxes  and 
ends  of  logs. 

Mrs.  Davidson  cast  a  glance  into  the  open  door.  It 
included  the  spectacle  of  a  neat,  white-covered  bed, 
a  table  with  a  clean  white  oil-cloth  cover,  a  series  of 
covered  and  screened  receptacles  such  as  the  place 
might  best  afford  out  of  its  resources.  She  saw  a 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

floor  immaculately  clean.  She  spoke  after  a  time, 
ending  a  silence  which  was  unusual  with  her. 

"The  latter  title  that  you  gave  me,  Mrs.  Gage,  is 
correct,"  said  she.  "I  am  a  widow,  having  never  en 
countered  the  oppor-r-r-tunity  but  once."  It  was  worth 
going  miles  out  of  one's  way  to  hear  her  say  "oppor 
tunity" — or  to  see  her  wide-mouthed  smile. 

"As  a  widow,"  she  resumed  with  orotundity  not 
lessened  by  her  absence  from  her  own  accustomed 
dais,  "as  a  widow  yourself,  you  are  arranged  here  with 
a  fair  degree  of  comfort,  as  I  am  disposed  to  believe, 
Mrs.  Gage." 

"I  cannot  complain,"  said  Mary  Gage  simply. 

"A  great  trait  in  life,  my  dear  madam;  resigna 
tion!  I  endeavor  to  inculcate  in  my  pupils  the  virtue 
of  stoicism.  I  tell  them  of  the  Spartan  boy,  Mrs. 
Gage.  Perhaps  you  have  heard  of  the  Spartan  boy?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mary.  "I  know  something  about 
stoicism,  I  hope.  But  now  I'm  going  to  get  you  some 
berries — I  picked  some,  up  beyond,  on  the  meadows." 
She  rose  now  and  passed  into  that  part  of  her  cabin 
which  constituted  the  kitchen. 

"An  extr-r-r-aordinary  young  woman!"  said  Mrs. 
Davidson  to  Karen  Jensen.  "An  extraordinary  person 
to  be  here.  Why,  she  is  a  person  of  culture,  like  my 
self.  And  once  married — married  to  that  man!" 
Mrs.  Davidson's  lips  were  tight  pursed  now. 

"I  don't  reckon  she  ever  was,  real,"  said  Karen 
Jensen,  simply.  "I  don't  hardly  believe  they  was." 

Mrs.  Davidson  showed  herself  disposed  to  regard  all 
312 


MRS.  DAVIDSON'S  CONSCIENCE 

the  proprieties,  hence  she  but  coughed  ponderously  and 
shook  her  head  ponderously,  turning  from  side  to  side 
two  or  three  times  in  her  chair  ponderously  also. 

"For  what  has  happened  here,"  said  she  at  last,  "I 
thank  God.  If  things  had  happened  worse  it  would 
have  been  my  fault.  Never  again  shall  I  address  my 
self  to  the  task  of  writing  advertisements  for  men  in 
search  of  wives.  Great  Providence!  An  extraordi 
nary  woman  like  this!  To-night  I  shall  pray  on  my 
two  knees  for  forgiveness  for  what  I  did,  and  what  it 
might  have  meant.  When  I  consider  how  near  I 
came  to — to ' 

"To  raising  hell?"  inquired  Karen  Jensen  sym 
pathetically,  seeing  that  her  companion  lacked  the 
proper  word  at  the  time. 

The  other  woman  nodded  in  emphatic  though  un 
conscious  assent.  Always  there  was  present  before 
her  mind  her  own  part  in  the  little  drama  of  this  place. 
It  was  she  who  had  helped  to  bring  this  woman  here 
— who  had  helped  to  deceive  her.  She  thanked  Provi 
dence  that  perhaps  fate  itself  sometimes  saves  us  from 
the  full  fruit  of  our  follies,  after  all. 

"Just  a  little  sugar,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Gage,"  said 
she  as  Mary  offered  her  some  of  the  fresh  whortle 
berries.  "And  these  little  cakes — you  made  them?" 

"Oh,  yes — I  do  most  of  my  cooking,  when  I  can 
keep  Annie  away.  You  know  about  Annie,  of  course. 
And  Minna,  Mrs.  Jensen's  little  girl,  who  is  my  com 
panion  here  most  of  the  time — as  I  said,  she's  a  dear, 

313 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

I've  been  teaching  her  to  read  all  summer — spoiling 
your  work,  Mrs.  Davidson !" 

"I  wish  more  and  more  that  I  might  have  aid  in  that 
undertaking  in  this  valley,"  said  Sarah  Davidson, 
herself  a  great  soul  in  her  way,  and  Covenanter  when 
it  came  to  duty.  "It  is  perhaps  primitive  here,  more 
so  than  elsewhere,  but  the  people — the  people — they 
need  so  much,  and  they — they— 

"They  are  so  much,"  said  Mary  Gage  gently.  "They 
are  so  much.  I  never  knew  before  what  real  people 
were.  I'm  so  glad." 

Mrs.  Davidson's  face  worked  strangely,  very 
strangely,  Mary  thought,  so  that  she  believed  her  to  be 
afflicted  with  some  nervous  disease  of  the  facial 
muscles.  But  in  truth  Sarah  Davidson  was  only  en 
deavoring  to  get  under  control  her  own  emotions, 
which,  like  all  else  about  her,  were  ponderous  and 
slow. 

"Then,  my  dear — you  will  let  me  say  'my  dear,' 
won't  you  ?  It's  becoming  such  a  habit  with  me  at  my 
time  of  life — you  will  permit  me  to  inquire  if  that  is  an 
actual  expression  of  your  attitude  toward  the  people 
here?  You  say  you  are  glad?  Do  you  mean  that, 
or  is  it  a  mere  conventionality  with  you  ?" 

Mary  turned  toward  her  with  that  gravity  which 
quite  commonly  marked  her  face  when  all  her  fea 
tures  were  at  rest. 

"I  quite  mean  it  all,  Mrs.  Davidson,"  said  she.  "I'm 
thankful  with  all  my  heart  that  I  came  out  here.  It's 
a  great  .place  to  fight  things  out.  I'd  never  have  been 


MRS.  DAVIDSON'S  CONSCIENCE 

happy  in  all  my  life  if  I  had  not  come  here.     I'm 
really  glad,  and  you  may  believe  that,  because  I  do — 

now." 

"You  would  forgive — you  would  cherish  no  malice 
against  any  who  acted  as  the  ah — instigators — of  your 
original  journey  here?" 

A  sudden  question  arose  in  Mrs.  Davidson's  mind 
as  to  whether  or  not  any  of  Mary  Gage's  associates 
and  neighbors  ever  had  told  her  all  the  story  of  that 
original  endeavor,  whose  object  was  matrimony. 
Whereupon  she  concluded  now  to  let  sleeping  dogs  lie, 
and  not  to  urge  the  matter.  Nor  was  Mary  herself 
the  more  disposed  at  the  moment  to  speak  of  the  past. 
She  only  looked  out  across  the  valley,  as  was  her  cus 
tom. 

They  passed  on  to  some  talk  of  the  peace  news, 
and  demobilization  plans  for  the  men  still  abroad,  for 
the  visitors  had  brought  the  latest  paper  with  them. 

"Our  men!"  exclaimed  Mary  Gage  as  she  read  the 
headlines.  "They're  fine.  They  are  always  fine, 
everywhere,  all  of  them.  I'd  have  liked  to  see  them  in 
the  great  parades,  in  the  cities." 

"  'Twould  be  a  gr-r-r-and  sight,"  said  Mrs.  David 
son,  "for  women  who  have  had  no  oppor-r-r-tunity !" 

"Ah?  Women  who  haven't  had  what  women  wish  ?" 
said  Mary  Gage,  a  strange  confidence  in  her  own 
tones.  "Don't  you  suppose  God  knows  the  way? 
Why  be  trying  to  change—  "  The  word  did  not  come 
at  first. 

"The  plan?"  suggested  Mrs.  Davidson. 

315 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

"The  plan !"  said  Mary. 

"I  must  be  going  before  long,"  said  Karen  Jensen, 
having  finished  her  saucer  of  berries,  and  caring  little 
for  philosophizing.  "I've  got  to  milk  seven  cows  yet." 

"I  will  come  often,  if  I  may,  Mrs.  Gage,  now  that 
I  am  again  located  in  this  valley,"  said  her  companion, 
rising  also. 

"Oh,  won't  you,  please!"  said  Mary  Gage.  "And — 
won't  you  do  me  a  little  favor  now  ?  I  have  a  letter— 
I  was  just  going  up  to  the  corner  to  put  it  in  the  box. 
If  you're  going  that  way,  will  you  drop  it  in  for  me?" 

Karen  Jensen  hesitated,  looking  across  at  the  short 
cut  across  the  fields,  but  Mrs.  Davidson,  not  being  well 
organized  for  barbed  wire  entanglements,  offered  for 
the  errand,  which  would  take  her  around  by  the  road. 

"Surely,  I  shall  be  most  happy,"  said  she.  "I  will 
walk  around  by  the  box  and  drop  your  letter  very 
gladly.  No,  no,  don't  mind  coming.  It's  nothing — I 
always  go  home  that  way." 

But  Sarah  Davidson  after  all  was  the  school  teacher 
when  she  had  passed  beyond  the  gate  in  the  willow 
lane.  She  felt  that  in  her  were  represented  all  the 
privileges  of  what  priesthood  might  be  claimed  in  this 
valley.  She  felt  that  her  judgment  was  large  enough 
to  be  infallible,  since  she  so  long  had  been  arbiter  here 
in  all  mooted  matters.  It  was,  therefore,  surely  her 
right  to  have  intelligence  as  to  the  plans,  the  emotions, 
the  mental  process  of  all  these  people,  including  all 
newcomers.  Were  they  not  indeed  in  her  charge  ? 

Her  right?  Indeed,  was  it  not  her  duty  to  know 
316 


MRS.  DAVIDSON'S  CONSCIENCE 

what  there  was  in  this  letter  from  the  woman  whom 
she  herself  had  brought  out  here  not  so  long  ago? 
It  caused  her  vast  perturbation,  for  she  had  a  con 
science  which  dated  back  to  ages  of  Scottish  blood,  but 
she  was  not  one  to  deviate  from  her  duty  once  she  had 
established  it!  This  letter — to  Major  Allen  Barnes, 
in  yonder  city — what  was  in  it  ? 

It  was  a  letter  going  to  that  outer  world,  from 
the  very  person  whom  she,  Sarah  Davidson,  had 
brought  into  this  sagebrush  world  and  had  set  down 
among  these  neighbors.  Just  now  she  had  confessed 
herself  to  be  happy  here.  Why?  Could  it  be  a  viola 
tion  of  confidence — an  eavesdropping — opening  this 
letter?  Not  in  the  least!  It  was  only  oppor-r-r- 
ttinity !  As  to  that,  who  did  not  know  that  for  years 
every  letter  to  a  soldier  was  opened  and  censored? 
Obviously  it  was  her  duty  as  social  censor  of  Two 
Forks  also  to  open  and  read  this  letter. 

Therefore,  looking  behind  her  cautiously  to  see  she 
was  not  observed,  she  stepped  behind  the  cover  of  the 
willows  and  ran  the  point  of  her  pencil  along  the  edge 
of  the  sealed  envelope — it  had  been  sealed  thoroughly. 
Still,  she  tore  it  but  very  little  in  the  process. 

There  came  out  into  her  hand  a  single  sheet  of 
paper.  It  bore  no  address  and  no  signature.  It 
showed  a  handwriting  evidently  that  of  a  lady  of 
culture,  of  education.  There  was  nothing  to  show 
that  it  was  an  answer— an  answer  long  deferred  but 
not  now  to  be  changed,  a  woman's  answer  to  the  great 
question. 


THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

Mrs.  Davidson  was  standing  in  a  sort  of  consterna 
tion,  the  two  parts  of  the  letter  in  her  two  hands,  when 
she  nearly  sprang  into  the  wire  fence  at  the  sudden 
voice  she  heard,  the  voice  of  a  man  speaking  close 
at  hand. 

"Good  Lord,  Mr.  Gardner!"  said  she,  "you  gave 
me  a  turn.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  you." 

"What  was  you  thinking  of,  Mis'  Davidson?"  asked 
Wid,  smiling.  "You  was  all  in  a  trance.  Some 
thing  on  your  mind,  huh?  I  bet  I  know.  You're 
sending  out  a  ad  on  your  own  account — 'object,  matri 
mony!'" 

"Sir-r-r!"  said  Sarah  Davidson,  flushing  red  for 
the  first  time  Wid  Gardner  had  ever  seen  it  occur, 
"such  conver-r-r-sation  is  not  welcome  on  your  part, 
not  in  the  least !  I  prefer-r-r  that  you  shall  not  again 
mention  that  act  which  I  have  so  long  regretted.  The 
past  is  past.  A  woman's  real  love  is  for  to-day  and  to 
morrow,  when  with  her  own  eyes  and  her  own 
hear-r-rt  she  has  chosen  honorably,  sir-r — honor-r- 
ably!  I  bid  you  good  evening,  Mr.  Gar-r-r-dner.  I 
request  you  never  to  speak  of  that  incident  again!" 

Nor  did  he,  so  far  as  known. 

But  when  Wid  himself,  chuckling  innocently,  had 
passed  on  down  toward  the  gate  with  the  loaf  of 
bread  which  Annie  was  sending  over  to  Mary  Gage 
for  her  evening  meal,  Sarah  Davidson  was  passing  up 
the  road  toward  the  school  house — entirely  forgetting 
to  turn  to  the  left  toward  Nek  Jensen's,  where  she 
boarded. 


MRS.  DAVIDSON'S  CONSCIENCE 

She  was  wiping  away  large,  ponderous  tears — tears 
of  joy  that  the  world  had  in  it  love  of  men  and  women 
— that  God,  after  all,  did  know — that  the  world  still 
was  as  it  was  in  the  beginning,  incapable  of  destruc 
tion  even  by  war,  incapable  of  diversion  from  the  plan 
of  peace  and  hope.  She  guessed  so  much — and 
guessed  the  future  of  Mary  Gage's  life — from  data 
meager  enough,  but  which  may  have  served. 

What  she  saw  on  the  single,  unsigned  page,  and 
what  opened  all  the  fountains  of  emotion  in  her  own 
really  gentle  soul,  was  a  part  of  what  Mary  once  had 
heard  come  to  her  in  a  world  of  darkness.  The  words 
now  were  written  by  herself  in  a  world  of  light. 

She  had  promised  him  when  he  went  away  that,  if 
ever  everything  was  clear  in  her  own  mind  regarding 
what  was  past,  she  might  write  to  him  one  day.  So 
now  she  had  written : 

"Only  thoughts  of  you  remain 
In  my  heart  where  they  have  lain; 
Perfumed  thoughts  of  you,  remaining, 
A  hid  sweetness,  in  my  brain. 
Others  leave  me ;  all  things  leave  me : 
You  remain." 


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THE  COVERED  WAGON 

An  epic  story  of  the  Great  West  from  which  the  fan* 
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THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN 

A  colorful  romance  of    the  pioneer  West  before   th 
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THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

An  Eastern  girl  answer*  a  matrimonial  ad.  and  goes  out 
West  in  the  hills  of  Montana  to  find  her  mate. 

THE  WAY  OUT 

A  romance  of  the  feud  districtof  the  Cumberland  country. 

THE  BROKEN  GATE 

A  story  of  broken  social  conventions  and  of  a  woman's 
determination  to  put  the  past  behind  her. 

THE  WAY  TO  THE  WEST 

Daniel  Boone,  Davy  Crockett  and  Kit  Carson  figure  in 
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HEART'S  DESIRE 

The  story  of  what  happens  when  the  railroad  came  to  a 
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THE  PURCHASE  PRICE 

A  story  of  Kentucky  during  the  days  after  the  American 
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THE  BARON  OF  DIAMOND  TAIL 

The  Elk  Mountain  Cattle  Co.  had  not  paid  a  dividend  in  years  ; 
so  Edgar  Barrett,  fresh  from  the  navy,  was  sent  West  to  see  what 
was  wrong  at  the  ranch.  The  tale  of  this  tenderfoot  outwitting  the 
buckaroos  at  their  own  play  will  sweep  you  into  the  action  of  this 
salient  western  novel. 

THE  BONDBOY 

Joe  Newbolt,  bound  out  by  force  of  family  conditions  to  work  for 
a  number  of  years,  is  accused  of  murder  and  circumstances  are 
against  him.  His  mouth  is  sealed;  he  cannot,  as  a  gentleman,  utter 
the  words  that  would  clear  him.  A  dramatic,  romantic  tale  of  intense 
interest. 

CLAIM  NUMBER  ONE 

Dr.  Warren  Slavens  drew  claim  number  one,  which  entitled  him 
to  first  choice  of  rich  lands  on  an  Indian  reservation  in  Wyoming.  It 
meant  a  fortune  ;  but  before  he  established  his  ownership  he  had  a 
hard  battle  with  crooks  and  politicians. 

THE  DUKE  OF  CHIMNEY  BUTTE 

When  Jerry  Lambert,  "the  Duke,"  attempts  to  safeguard  the 
cattle  ranch  of  Vesta  Philbrook  from  thieving  neighbors,  his  work  is 
appallingly  handicapped  because  of  Grace  Kerr,  one  of  the  chief  agi 
tators,  and  a  deadly  enemy  of  Vesta's.  A  stirring  tale  of  brave  deeds, 
gun-play  and  a  love  that  shines  above  all. 

THE  FLOCKMASTER  OF  POISON  CREEK 

John  Mackenzie  trod  the  trail  from  Jasper  to  the  great  sheep 
country  where  fortunes  were  being  made  by  the  flock-masters. 
Shepherding  was  not  a  peaceful  pursuit  in  those  bygone  days.  Ad 
venture  met  him  at  every  turn — there  is  a  girl  of  course — men  fight 
their  best  fights  for  a  woman — it  is  an  epic  of  the  sheeplands. 

THE  LAND  OF  LAST  CHANCE 

Jim  Timberlake  and  Capt.  David  Scott  waited  with  restless 
thousands  on  the  Oklahoma  line  for  the  signal  to  dash  across  the 
border.  How  the  city  of  Victory  arose  overnight  on  the  plains,  how 
people  savagely  defended  their  claims  against  the  "sooners;  "  hew 
good  men  and  bad  played  politics,  makes  a  strong  story  of  growth 
and  American  initiative. 

TRAIL'S  END 

Ascalon  was  the  end  of  the  trail  for  thirsty  cowboys  who  gave 
vent  to  their  pent-up  feelings  without  restraint.  Calvin  Morgan  was 
not  concerned  with  its  wickedness  until  Seth  Craddock's  malevolence 
directed  itself  against  him.  He  did  not  emerge  from  the  maelstrom 
until  he  had  obliterated  every  vestige  of  lawlessness,  and  assured 
himself  of  the  safety  of  a  certain  dark-eyed  girl. 

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THE  COUNTRY  BEYOND 

THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

THE  VALLEY  OF  SILENT  MEN 

THE  RIVER'S  END 

THE  GOLDEN  SNARE 

NOMADS  OF  THE  NORTH 

KAZAN 

BAREE,  SON  OF  KAZAN 

THE  COURAGE  OF  CAPTAIN  PLUM 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 

THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

THE  GRIZZLY  KING 

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TO  THE  LAST  MAN 

THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

THE  U.  P.  TRAIL 

WILDFIRE 


THE  BORDER  LEGION 
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THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 
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THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 
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TARZAN  AND  THE  GOLDEN  LION 

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TARZAN  THE  TERRIBLE 

Further  thrilling  adventures  of  Tarzan  while  seeking  his  wife 
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TARZAN  THE  UNTAMED 

Tells  of  Tarzan' s  return  to  the  life  of  the  ape-man  in  seeking 
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JUNGLE  TALES  OF  TARZAN 

Records  the  many  wonderful  exploits  by  which  Tarzan  proves 
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AT  THE  EARTH'S  CORE 

An  astonishing  series  of  adventures  in  a  world  located  inside 
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THE  MUCKER 

The  story  of  Billy  Byrne — as  extraordinary  a  character  as  the 
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A  PRINCESS  OF  MARS 

Forty-three  million  miles  from  the  earth — a  succession  of  the 
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THE  GODS  OF  MARS 

John  Carter's  adventures  on  Mars,  where  he  fights  the  fero 
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THE  WARLORD  OF  MARS 

Old  acquaintances,  made  in  two  other  stories,  reappear,  Tars 
Tarkas,  Tardos  Mors  and  others. 

THUVIA,  MAID  OF  MARS 

The  story  centers  around  the  adventures  of  Carthoris,  the  sou 
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THE  CHESSMEN  OF  MARS 

,  The  adventures  of  Princess  Tara  in  the  land  of  headless  men, 
creatures  with  the  power  of  detaching  their  heads  from  their 
bodies  and  replacjng_thern_at  will. 

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RICHARD  CHATTERTON 

A  fascinating  story  in  which  love  and  jealousy  play 
strange  tricks  with  women's  souls. 

A  BACHELOR  HUSBAND 

Can  a  woman  love  two  men  at  the  same  time  ? 

In  its  solving  of  this  particular  variety  of  triangle  "  A 
Bachelor  Husband  "  will  particularly  interest,  and  strangely 
enough,  without  one  shock  to  the  most  conventional  minded. 

THE  SCAR 

With  fine  comprehension  and  insight  the  author  shows  a 
terrific  contrast  between  the  woman  whose  love  was  of  the 
flesh  and  one  whose  love  was  of  the  spirit. 

THE  MARRIAGE  OF  BARRY  WICKLOW 

Here  is  a  man  and  woman  who,  marrying  for  love,  yet  try 
to  build  their  wedded  life  upon  a  gospel  of  hate  for  each 
other  and  yet  win  back  to  a  greater  love  for  each  other  in 
the  end. 

THE  UPHILL  ROAD 

The  heroine  of  this  story  was  a  consort  of  thieves.  The 
man  was  fine,  clean,  fresh  from  the  West  It  is  a  story  of 
strength  and  passion. 

WINDS  OF  THE  WORLD 

Jill,  a  poor  little  typist,  marries  the  great  Henry  Sturgess 
and  inherits  millions,  but  not  happiness.  Then  at  last  —  but 
we  must  leave  that  to  Ruby  M.  Ay  res  to  tell  you  as  only 
she  can. 

THE  SECOND  HONEYMOON 

In  this  story  the  author  has  produced  a  book  which  no 
one  who  has  loved  or  hopes  to  love  can  afford  to  miss. 
The  story  fairly  leaps  from  climax  to  climax. 

THE  PHANTOM  LOVER 

Have  you  not  often  heard  of  someone  being  in  love  with 
love  rather  than  the  person  they  believed  the  object  of  their 
affections  ?  That  was  Esther  1  But  she  passes  through  the 
crisis  into  a  deep  and  profound  love. 

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FETTER  B.  KYNE'S  NOVELS 

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THE  PRIDE  OF  PALOMAR 

When  two  strong  men  clash  and  the  under-dog  has  Irish 
blood  in  his  veins — there's  a  tale  that  Kyne  can  tell !  And 
"  the  girl "  is  also  very  much  in  evidence. 

KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Donald  McKay,  son  of  Hector  McKay,  millionaire  lum 
ber  king,  falls  in  love  with  "  Nan  of  the  Sawdust  Pile,"  a 
charming  girl  who  has  been  ostracized  by  her  townsfolk 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  GIANTS 

The  fight  of  the  Cardigans,  father  and  son,  to  hold  the 
Valley  of  the  Giants  against  treachery.  The  reader  finishes 
with  a  sense  of  having  lived  with  big  men  and  women  m  a 
big  country. 

GAPPY  RICKS 

The  story  of  old  Gappy  Ricks  and  of  Matt  Peasley,  the 
boy  he  tried  to  break  because  he  knew  the  acid  test  wa? 
good  for  his  soul. 

WEBSTER:   MAN'S  MAN 

In  a  little  Jim  Crow  Republic  in  Central  America,  a  ;nan 
and  a  woman,  hailing  from  the  "  States,"  met  up  with  a 
{evolution  and  for  a  while  adventures  and  excitement  came 
so  thick  and  fast  that  their  love  affair  had  to  wait  for  a  lull 
in  the  game. 
CAPTAIN  SCRAGGS 

This  sea  yarn  recounts  the  adventures  of  three  rapscal 
lion  sea-faring  men — a  Captain  Scraggs,  owner  of  the  green 
vegetable  freighter  Maggie,  Gibney  the  mate  and  McGuff 
cey  the  engineer. 
THE  LONG  CHANCE 

"  A  story  fresh  from  the  heart  of  the  West,  of  San  Pasqual, 
a  sun-baked  desert  town,  of  Harley  P.  Hennage,  the  best 
gambler,  the  best  and  worst  man  of  San  Pasqual  and  of 
lovely  Donna.  

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JACKSON  GREGORY'S  NOVELS 

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THE  EVERLASTING  WHISPER 

The  story  01  a  strong  man's  struggle  against  savage  nature  and  human* 
JtjTt  and  of  a  beautiful  .girl's  regeneration  from  a  spoiled  child  of  wealth  into 
a  courageous  strong-willed  woman, 

DESERT  VALLEY 

A  college  professor  sets  out  with  his  daughter  to  find  gold.  They  meet 
•  rancher  who  loses  his  heart,  and  become  bvolved  in  a  feud.  An  intensely 
exciting  story. 

MAN  TO  MAN 

Encireied  with  enemies,  distrusted,  Steve  defends  his  rights.  How  he 
won  his  game  and  the  girl  he  loved  is  the  story  filled  wtth  breathless 
•ituabons. 

THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  JUAN 

Dr.  Virginia  Page  is  forced  to  go  with  the  sheriff  on  a  night  journey 
into  the  strongholds  of  a  lawless  band.  Thrills  and  excitement  sweep  thr 
reader  along  to  the  end. 

JUDITH  OF  BLUE  LAKE  RANCH 

Judith  Sanford  part  owner  of  a  cattle  ranch  realize*  she  is  being  robbed 
by  her  foreman.  How,  with  the  help  of  Bud  Lee,  she  checkmates  Trevor's 
scheme  makes  fascinating  reading. 

THE  SHORT  CUT 

Wayne  is  suspected  of  killing  his  brother  after  a  violent  quarrel.  Finan 
cial  complications,  villaias,  a  horse-race  and  beautiful  Wanda,  all  go  to  make 
up  a  thrilling  romance. 

THE  JOYOUS  TROUBLE  MAKER 

A  reporter  sets  up  housekeeping  close  to  Beatrice's  Ranch  much  to  her 
chagrin.  There  is  "  another  man  "  who  complicates  matters,  but  all  turn* 
out  as  :t  should  in  this  tale  of  romance  and  adventure. 

SIX  FEET  FOUR 

Beatrice  Waverly  is  robbed  of  $5,000  and  suspicion  fastens  upon  Buck 
Thornton,  but  she  soon  realizes  he  is  not  guilty.  Intensely  exciting,  here  it  t 
real  story  of  the  Great  Far  West 

WOLF  BREED 

No  Luck  Dtennan  had  grown  hard  through  loss  of  faith  in  men  he  hed 
touted.  A  woman  hater  and  sharp  of  tongue,  he  finds  a  match  in  Ygerot 
whose  clever  fencing  wins  the  admiration  and  love  of  the  "  Lone  Wolf." 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


DATE  DUE 


RECD  , 


UL  5     1975 


GAYLORD 


000  592  627     4 


